


Broken Open Revealing Hollowness and Vibrance

by JaxxCapta



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: (Except an AU), Background Relationships, Dream No More Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Injury Recovery, Post-Canon, Rebuilding, Siblings, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-07-11 20:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 57
Words: 153,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaxxCapta/pseuds/JaxxCapta
Summary: Hornet woke in the Black Egg Temple to the sight of her sibling's fractured mask. For the walk from the temple's central chamber to its exit, she thought herself truly alone in the world once more.When Hollow followed her out, she realized that wasn't so. But now she has to try and take care of her older sibling as they recuperate and learn to live in a world where they do not have to be pure, figure out what to do about what Little Ghost left of a body, and try to piece together two kingdoms which fell long ago.Life keeps throwing her surprises, too, which does not help.(Post-Dream No More ending, though it's fudged and mixed with the Godseeker endings some. Characters and tags will be updated as more chapters are posted.)





	1. You Found Me

The remnants of the temple were filled with ragged breaths and the rancidness of the infection. Hornet's head swam, both from her presence here and the force that had thrown her around. She remembered something happening after both her siblings fell still, Hollow tangled in her thread, then both them and the Little Ghost falling into a stupor once Little Ghost slashed Hollow with that strange, ephemeral blade.

She pushed herself to hands and knees, then into a crouch, and almost to standing. But that was when she saw what remained of her sibling.

Little Ghost's mask, broken in half, little pieces of their shell swimming in a draining pool of Void. Their eyes were always blank, so much so it felt like the nothingness consumed you if you stared too long. But this, this was somehow worse. Their belongings, not usually kept neat but hidden away save for the charms on their cloak, were all stained black, in part from Void, in part from the small pot of ink on the ground.

She reached for their mask, hesitated, took up their charms and map instead. This would help her find people who needed to know what had happened to them, or people who could at least help rebuild...

Rebuild what?

Grief gripped her, squeezing so tight around her throat and midsection she thought she'd pop apart, head, thorax, and abdomen joining her sibling's pieces. They were gone. Herrah was gone. The infection was gone, but so precious little remained.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her eye, willing the tears to stay away. She needed to get up. She needed to go somewhere, make a plan. She was protector. She was princess. She couldn't afford this.

Hallownest needed to recover more than she.

She stood, at last, taking up her needle and stashing the map in her cloak. Dirtmouth was mere minutes' walk from here. There first. Breathe. Plan.

The trek through what had been Hollow's containment felt muffled. Maybe she'd been more hurt in the aftermath of Hollow and Little Ghost's fight than she thought? The idea chilled her – she needed to be strong and capable.

Protector.

Princess.

Light from the Crossroads bled in at the temple's exit. Her grip tightened on the needle, bereft of all but a sad strand of thread. She had another spool, she knew well to be prepared. Her vulnerability felt glaring, like everything within Hallownest would know she was without thread on her needle. It was only a few minutes to Dirtmouth. She could tie on the second spool there.

Chains dragged and scraped against the temple's floor. She spun to face her enemy and readied her needle. Threaded or not, she'd do what she could. Even if she felt like the blood and Void in her veins was freezing up.

Hollow towered above her. Their mask no longer gleamed, dusty and spattered with drying pus. The crack in it leaked Void where she'd struck them. More black dripped from their right side, trailing along their tattered cloak and the ground.

She tamped down the voice screaming in her not to fight them, that this was her sibling, what was she doing? She had lost one already.

Hollow shambled for her. She couldn't dive at them, they were too big for that. If she was fast enough, maybe she could-

They keeled over and collapsed, arm outstretched. Their breaths wheezed. Pitch-black eyes stared at her, empty as ever. Any glow of infection had already faded away.

It was as if her feet moved without her command. She stepped closer, needle still ready to strike, until she was right by their face. She studied them, looking for any sign of the sibling she'd once known. The one whose memorial she spent too long in front of, watching the tears on its face drip into the fountain below.

Their arm moved and a massive palm bumped up against the underside of her mask. They cradled her, too weak, too unwilling to crush her. Their fingers curled around her horns, pulling her into their touch.

The nothingness of their gaze met the intensity of hers. Needlepoint pricking at their wrist, she grasped their thumb, her fingers barely able to encircle theirs.

“Hollow?”

The smallest twitch of their head, enough for her to know she had their attention.

“You're dying.” Her voice cracked, tears threatening to well up again. The flow of Void was slow, but their entire arm was gone, if she didn't do anything, if she couldn't do anything, they'd fade away right in front of her.

They sighed. To anyone else, it would have been a simple exhale. Even after all these years, though, she knew.

“You need help.” She didn't want to, but she stepped away, their hand still on her cheek.

This, they hesitated at. But their hand fell away, arm folding over their eyes. It was time for them to rest.

As for her, she ran.

The chain leading up to Dirtmouth was not far. Her feet tapped against the ground, a rapid patter. She leaped onto the chain and climbed, the effort melting away with her desperation.

And at last, Dirtmouth and its sentinel met.

An old bug raised his head, the only one standing out in the town.

“I need help!” she called, the words unfamiliar, weird, childish. She skidded to a stop in front of him, rocking her weight from foot to foot, looking for anything promising. A few buildings with lights flickering inside. Maybe, maybe. “I need more hands. People who can venture below.”

He pointed her towards a storefront. Inside she found two bugs, one hunched over a counter, the other roused from sleep by her commotion. She told them she needed them to come with her, help someone who had been injured and she could not move alone.

The woman picked up her nail, and both promised their assistance.

She led them down the chain, swooping from it towards the temple. She flew ahead of the other two, her steps springing light across the rocks, dancing around the corpses. A few creatures chirruped at her, too frazzled to truly act. Some of the once-infected lived on, so it seemed, at least for now. Others were burst, pockmarked so thoroughly there was no hope they could be alive. She pushed on. They pushed on. They had to.

Both of the bugs faltered when the temple came into view, and Hollow with it.

Hornet ducked under Hollow's remaining arm; they were not too heavy, not like their size would have one believe, but still too much for her alone. She directed the other two, and together with what feeble effort Hollow could provide, they began to move.

“There's a stag station nearby,” the man – Cornifer, right? - said. He grunted when Hollow's head hit a rock in the ceiling and they listed, and he had to take on more of their weight. “Your, ah, your friend here should fit in the tunnels.”

Yes, and there was a station just above the hidden village, where she had called home for so long. They could go right to Deepnest and get to work on making Hollow better. She nodded, and pulled out Little Ghost's map.

The sight of the hand-drawn lines, the punched-in pins, every detail Little Ghost made, stabbed her heart. She glanced at the stag pin, traced the path to it, and shoved it back in her cloak, ignoring the pain and welling nausea. She had to save one sibling. One she'd known.

Iselda rang the bell. Hornet sat by Hollow's side as they rested, testing her needle and second spool to see if she could, in any way, sew up the wounds. The one where the arm once was, and the ones where they had stabbed themselves, or Radiance had stabbed them.

No will to break. Nothing for her to fight when Little Ghost entered the chamber.

Hollow did nothing when the tip of her needle sunk into them, thread slipping through and crossing over as Hornet closed up a stab wound. If she did not know their mannerisms like she did, she may have thought them dead.

She hated to thank her father's craftsmanship, so instead attributed to Monomon or some blessing of the Void the fact that, while Hollow formed a shell, only Void swirled inside, unlike the myriad details of anatomy within a normal bug. She knew field medicine, of course, but the stitching of anything beyond flesh was out of her range.

The stag thundered to the platform, mud and dirt flicking up as he stopped. Iselda and Cornifer immediately approached to try and explain the situation to the best of their understanding, but the old stag's eyes were set on Hollow, head barely cocked towards the couple.

Hornet got under her sibling again and helped them off the ground, their feet and hand scrabbling against the brickwork as the couple joined in and the four of them crawled up to the stag.

“Eh, you're not so small any more, are you?” He leaned into the Void-black arm that wrapped around his back, fingers burying into his long fur. He struggled with their weight, too, but with careful maneuvering they were able to rest Hollow's upper body on the stag's back. Their legs dragged off his back, necessitating the three smaller bugs to help carry them. Best not to risk further injuries, and the stag didn't need the extra drag holding him back.

“Can't exactly return you to the palace, can I?” the stag rumbled, looking back to ensure his passenger was as secure as they could get. His gaze lingered on the Void dripping onto him. “Quite the wounds.”

Hornet heard him add a muttered, “Poor soul.” The old, well-ingrained instructions on proper interaction with the Pure Vessel – the Hollow Knight – were strong. But it wasn't like the king was around to enforce the standards of their purity. He had no control on them any more, nor on her.

“Where to?” the stag asked as they started down the tunnel.

“Deepnest,” Hornet said, careful to keep from squeezing Hollow's leg too hard. She hadn't been there since Herrah died, once and for all, and before that, it had been years since she really spent any time there.

She ignored Cornifer's unnerved squeak. She would protect him, as she would any other of her charges. He could survive the short foray into the actual Deepnest from the station.

Hollow, though...

She did not plan on losing two siblings that day.

She did not ignore the potential that she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So, this is the fic I rambled about while I posted The Spider and The Wyrm!
> 
> If anyone has better ideas for titles, or has a clue what the timeline in Hallownest is, please let me know. I struggle with both titles and time.


	2. Steady As She Goes

It was a struggle to get Hollow from the station to Herrah's chambers. That was the only thing she could be sure would fit them; she was loathe to trap them in a small home after their isolation in the temple. But Cornifer was scared, and Iselda picked up on her husband's distress. Hollow fell more than navigated the jumps between the webbing and wood houses. Their feet couldn't seem to get a proper hold on the ledges and outcroppings, and their arm shook when they grasped things and tried to help support their own weight.

Getting closer to the den didn't make her feel any more comfortable. Far below, pinpricks of light hinted at the lake under the village, waiting for any of them to fall in. There was no way Hollow could swim in this state, and between their weight and build, she doubted they were naturally buoyant. If they fell and sunk below, she didn't know if any of them could drag them out in time. If they couldn't drown, then delaying their healing further would do it.

She jumped to the next navigable outcropping, feeling it out, calculating how to get the others down in the right order. Cornifer currently supported Hollow's legs, and Iselda, a ledge above, had their upper body. They needed to get Hollow's feet down first, then she needed to jump to the next ledge while Cornifer came down, then Iselda would move to where her husband had been standing.

"Down here!" she called.

Cornifer peered over the ledge, nodding to confirm he saw her. He shook a little, mumbling nervously to Hollow as he guided them off the ledge, clutching tightly to each leg while he eased it off. Iselda, above, strained with the effort of helping them down without dropping them.

Something in the not-too-far distance boomed. A garpede's tunnel collapsing, most likely. Uneventful for Deepnest natives.

Cornifer and Iselda were not Deepnest natives.

With a startled squawk, Cornifer fumbled. Iselda shrieked as Hollow fell from her grasp.

Hornet cried out as their black body whipped past her, knees bouncing off the ledge as they slid. With a resounding _crack!_ their mask hit a rock, throwing their head back. She tried to grab them as they fell past her, but the force pulled her down flat.

They hit another ledge and went flying, falling away from the ledges.

They were going right for the lake. She glimpsed the balcony extending out from one of the den's entrances, just beside their trajectory.

She was smaller than their head. She didn't know if she could beat their momentum.

She threw her needle. She had to try.

The siblings collided midair. Hollow's carapace refused to yield to the force, but her own sparked with pain. The two tumbled, Hollow landing first with a solid _whump_. Hornet managed to somersault, rolling once, twice, thrice and almost into the den proper.

As soon as she stopped she hauled herself to her feet and ran to Hollow's side. She tried to turn them over, see if their wounds had suffered for it.

They didn't move.

She begged, cursed, and in desperation shoved her hands under them and dug her fingers into their chest to get better purchase. Void flowed over her fingers, cold and drippy. But, with a grunt, she turned them over.

Their fingers twitched. A breath shuddered through them.

They lived, but for how much longer? Instinctively she tried to draw upon her silk; she had never tried to bind another's wounds, only her own. An attempt was more than nothing.

Except she didn't quite have enough Soul for it. No, no! She tried to dig deeper, even draw upon her own Soul, but after all she'd been through today selfish preservation instincts wouldn't give a drop.

The others hit the balcony. "Oh, gods!" Iselda said, kneeling by Hollow's head. She patted down her pockets, as if she could suddenly manifest something to help.

Unthinking, Hornet yanked her needle to her hand and struck.

Iselda and Cornifer shouted, the former drawing her nail and standing free of the siblings, hand covering the gash on her leg, but Hornet didn't care. She bent over Hollow and focused.

Silk lashed through the air, flying wild. It never did that when she healed herself, but no. Focus. She aimed them for the wounds she hadn't stitched up, the bleeding stump, the impalements and craters in their thorax. The threads wove and wound in the directions she called them to, sinking into Hollow's carapace.

It was ugly. Ugly and not as effective as it should have been, and a special drained sensation began to settle in on her. Hollow winced, trembling and shuddering at the foreign Soul holding them together. Unlike a true Weaver, she had yet to figure out how to separate what little magic she had from herself. It must have felt razor-sharp, like the silk she surrounded herself with in battle.

She tried to ease them onto her shoulders. Iselda joined her, nail back in its sheath, eyes squeezed shut between the pain of the cut and the effort. The weight behind them eased up; Cornifer had Hollow's lower half.

"You can _do_ that?" Iselda asked, her voice thin and strained.

Hornet guided her and Hollow through the door, giving thanks upon thanks to her ancestors that Mother was so much bigger than many other bugs. "Not without enough Soul. And it's hurting them."

The den was dark inside. No eyes glittered, only the odd candle. But it was not far to Herrah's chambers from here, and the pathway was wide.

Herrah's chambers were beautiful. Webs glimmered all around, their designs intricate. The plinth was artwork in and of itself. The skylight and the candles gave the entire room a soft illumination, peaceful and calming.

Hornet helped her bleeding, shaking sibling to its center, their Void mixing with the odd drops of Iselda's blood on the floor. Together the three eased Hollow down, their back resting against the plinth with their injured side facing the ceiling. Iselda sat by their head, checking their wounds and whispering to them. She stroked their horn, brief brushes, but caring ones nonetheless. Hornet pulled Cornifer aside and gave him directions to the den's medical stores, so he could at least help his wife. Without time to spare, she set out for the Weaver's Den.

All she found was one lone Weaver, holed up and guarded against the once-infected world. The spider begged an explanation from her the entire trip back, and Hornet provided one as best she could.

“Locked away for years? And so infected their arm rotted off? Are you sure about this?” The Weaver cowed as she led them to the open chasm.

“Yes. I trust them. Their only crime was the circumstance of their birth.” Hornet threw her needle, flying through the space between houses. The Weaver followed her close, hurrying along a nearly invisible strand of silk.

They hesitated before entering Herrah's chambers and rocked on their feet when they saw Hollow lying there, with Cornifer and Iselda tending to them. With little more than a stutter, they shooed everyone else out so they could work on their patient.

Now she walked the couple back to the station, using her needle and thread to help them navigate the jumps non-spiders found difficult. It was not far, and soon she had them outside the station door.

“Will you be all right down here?” Cornifer asked, taking her hands. She bristled at the touch, but couldn't bring herself to reject it.

“I am fine.” She laced her words with steel and poison to try and discourage him. Her breath shuddered, her shoulders ached with tension.

Little Ghost gone, right as she had begun to see them as family.

Hollow languishing, free but injured, and where she could not tell if they had healed or broken so far they no longer tried to hold to their father's standards.

Herself, well and truly orphaned.

Hallownest full of corpses and positioned to collapse again if nobody did anything.

“Please, come by sometime and tell us how you and your friend are.” Iselda's touch was brief, once on Hornet's shoulder. 

When she said nothing, they turned and walked away.

Only when they were in the doorway did Hornet find the will to rasp, “Sibling.”

Iselda looked back, hand on the stone wall. “What's that?”

“Hollow is my sibling.”

“...Oh.” Iselda's eyes fell from her, clearly unsure how to proceed. Her fingers curled in, scraping against stone.

“May they be well?” Cornifer offered. But then the stag snorted, hastening the two along before the encounter could get any more awkward.

Hornet mulled the words as she sat outside the grand door to Herrah's quarters, where she had lain for years until Little Ghost broke her part of the seal, and now where Hollow laid, tended to by the Weaver.

Well.

What would it mean for Hollow to be well?

Would it mean their purpose fulfilled? She supposed they did that. Hallownest was safe, the Radiance destroyed, the infection over. Would it mean physical recuperation? Their arm was gone, they would have to relearn how to function with more than their nail, which they seemed plenty proficient at still, unless that wasn't their doing at all. Or would it be a matter of psyche? She didn't know what was normal for them. Whether for them, healing would be returning to the emotionless, empty pillar they acted as all their life until being freed, or expressing with the freedom they had once shown her. Perhaps even greater freedom than that.

They were made to be empty. That was their proper state, right?

Why did she hate the idea of them becoming that?

The Weaver opened the door and ushered her back inside. Candlelight greeted her, scenting the room with beeswax. The Hive and Deepnest continued their close alliance, then, even after Vespa and Herrah's demise.

Hornet wondered if the rumors of her birth mother and the woman who trained her being in love were true.

Hollow's breaths were still uneasy, their head facing the floor, body sprawled out, arm around the plinth that Herrah once rested on. Silk so skillfully woven it looked like one solid piece covered Hollow's wounds, already slightly stained with Void, and connected with their carapace thoroughly enough it was hard to check underneath to see they had indeed finished the work to stitch Hollow up.

She sat next to them and leaned into their uninjured side. Their shell wasn't as soft as Little Ghost's, not at all. Their Void hadn't yet differentiated into the plating and joints that she or Hollow had. Granted, she'd had a shell from the start.

She pushed away the memory of saving Little Ghost from the wyrm's collapsing body, grasping onto them tight so they wouldn't fall, and feeling them clutch her cloak, even when barely conscious. She needed to do other things.

Her people needed to be her first priority. With her mother gone (and her resting place right there, strangely empty now, not like it had been when she visited) she was the sole heir and thus queen by birthright. The Devout would have it no other way, they needed Herrah, and she was the closest there was.

But she wasn't her mother. She was Hornet, Deepnest's strange, four-limbed princess. She was the Gendered Child to Hallownest, and to the White Lady in particular.

Yes, she'd go to the Queen's Gardens once she was certain Hollow would be okay, and let the White Lady know what all had happened. She knew plenty already, of course, the queen had a way of doing that, but Hornet needed to say it. To get it confirmed that she would handle rebuilding Hallownest.

If Hallownest needed royalty again. The White Lady, Hornet found more trustworthy than the Pale King, but she'd retreated to her gardens. Would she even want to leave and take up the duties of the queen? With how few people were around, was it worth it to rebuild the monarchy, or would they need to find something different? The palace was destroyed, there was nothing to serve as a capital, really.

Hornet dug into the top of her head. This was all going to fall apart. There weren't enough bugs to put the place back together, and if the population boomed now the infection was gone, they'd never have the infrastructure for it, this was doomed from the start. Hollow and Little Ghost sacrificed themselves for nothing.

Hollow shifted, head raising. Hornet ducked under them and came up again in front of them. They took in their surroundings, looking over everything at the exact same pace, as if there was nothing of interest. There never was, not unless something was swinging at them.

Hornet turned to the cabinets and hoped they hadn't moved things around on her. There was no dust to betray movement, the Devout and the people of Deepnest overall took good care of Herrah no matter how long she slept. With that barest doubt, she opened the cabinet that usually contained fresh bedding.

She drew past the smaller pieces, ones she really ought to give to any new weaverlings and deeplings, or at least to Midwife to distribute them as needed. She didn't need them any more. She didn't want them. She would not be the size she was when Herrah first slept again, when she'd spent so long at her mother's side the attendants stored her bedding in there. Foolish of them to keep it there, too, really. She didn't need it. They shouldn't have encouraged her.

Nothing would be big enough for Hollow. Still, she found some sheets and started to pull them free. But... these were Herrah's. They always were.

Herrah was gone. She had to remember that.

Once Hollow was better and she found a better place for them, this was to be Herrah's shrine. A memorial, a place for her people to return and pay their respects for an ancestor of Deepnest. This one, out in the open, at least for now.

She hadn't been around when Deepnest's last sire died, but Midwife took her to his shrine once, hidden away where outsiders wouldn't think to go. He had been stern, she said, but he and Herrah provided for their people.

Provisions. Yes. That's what she ought to do.

She carried the sheets to Hollow, the silk light and soft in her arms. Practically new, they must have only been used while Herrah served as a Dreamer.

Had Hollow ever met Herrah? She couldn't remember, and it wasn't as if her sibling would be giving answers any time soon.

She looked her sibling over again, trying to judge where to set everything. Their cloak was _filthy_ , stained with Void and infection, dust and dirt mixed into the mess. That was not touching the sheets, no. How had she let Hollow in Herrah's chambers with that thing on at all?

“Ugh.” She set the sheets down and stepped up to their head again, this time kneeling to search out the clasp. She found it on their shoulder, covered by a brooch resembling the Pale King's face. With it undone, she pulled it out from under them and walked off to drag the cloak off. “If there's anything important in here, expect not to get it back. I'm not sure this is salvageable, I might as well stitch you a new one.”

She dragged it out and to the washroom. Nobody was there, and it looked like it had been some time since the last shift. Had Little Ghost come through and fought the workers here, mistaking them for combatants, or had the recent years' disasters finally caught up with them? She knew a few Devout lived within the den, they would certainly be hostile. She dropped the cloak and hurried back up to Hollow before she could question the matter too far.

They were, as expected, right where she left them, not even looking at the sheets.

“Up,” she commanded, helping to roll them onto their uninjured side. They obeyed to the best of their ability, working with her while she pushed them. Ever since she had learned their purpose, and again when she truly understood it, she hated commanding them, but she had little choice now.

With them out of the way, she picked up the first of the sheets and laid it out, the edges of it flicking against Hollow as she draped it under them. As she smoothed it down, she felt the design on it, a tightly woven tapestry of Deepnest's past. She'd seen it many times, a common piece for Weavers to practice or display their skills on. Maybe sometime she would relate its meaning to Hollow. They were a good listener.

She laughed a dry chuckle at the thought. Whether it was more of a joke or a barb sticking someone, she wasn't sure. But if it was a barb, maybe it could be against the Pale King. Somehow.

The next sheet was a blue deeper than concentrated lifeblood. The sire's favorite color, from what she understood. She wasn't sure of her mother's opinion on it, but she knew for certain Herrah loved red the most.

With the bottom sheets placed, she gestured for Hollow to lie prone again. They crashed onto the floor despite their best efforts, the twitch of their fingers betraying their frustration at the indelicate move.

“You're fine,” she reassured them, picking out the sheet that would go over their chest. “Heal now, as best you can. There's a long, winding path ahead. None will begrudge that you have to walk it.”

Few ought to know of them anyways, but that was another matter. And she had already involved three more people.

She draped a jewel-red cloth over them, pulling it together by their collar and humming. She thought the red would suit them, but it was strange to see them in something other than white or their soft, almost greenish grey cloak. Perhaps her preferences biased her towards the red.

It would do for now. She could determine their preference later.

Once she deemed them sufficiently covered, she readjusted the red sheet around their shoulders and told them, “Stay here. I'm going to go hunting.”

They stared at her. As if they could do anything different.


	3. I'm Coming Home

At the very least, it was easier to hunt now that she could be mostly sure anything she killed wasn't infected. There were a few suspicious splotches remaining, but not many. It drained fast after Little Ghost...

After Little Ghost sacrificed themself.

After Little Ghost saved everyone.

Everyone left.

She returned to the Deepnest with her kills, taking the long route to bring food to those who needed it. Almost nobody remained; some Devout, the singular Weaver, and a smattering from Deepnest's other castes. All but the youngest recognized the princess, and even the youngest were swayed by the offer of food.

The last person she stopped at was Midwife. Hornet waited outside her den for her to emerge. When she did, her mask immediately slid away to reveal excited eyes and a hungry maw.

The kills in Hornet's hand were gone in a flash, disappearing with a series of hearty crunches. Midwife's eyes blinked in slow succession, watching Hornet with a certain wariness, as if she would steal the food back. As if she could.

“Child,” she said, and swallowed the last of her meal. “I didn't think I would see you again. Come here.” She patted the ground beside her and shuffled back into her den, replacing her mask in front of her face.

Hornet did as told. She knew Midwife, she trusted her, and besides, she'd just given her food. She sat close enough for Midwife to rest beside her, one leg around her. “I left my sibling in Mother's room. I'm sorry.”

“Sibling? The little one with the horns?” Midwife mimicked Little Ghost's horns.

Hornet shook her head, her breath hitching as she choked back a crying fit. Not now. Midwife was mourning, too, for Herrah, and all the others of the Deepnest who had died. She didn't need to add another pain to her list. She tried to focus on the dust in the air, the lingering scent of blood, how much fabric she would need to make Hollow a cloak.

“Ah. The one who's been locked away? That one's been freed?” She hummed, muttered something about them likely being no tastier than the first. “Such a quiet thing. I don't know if I ever told you, but they showed up once here, when your sire courted your mother into sacrifice. I thought them but a pretty show of power at the time. Gangly, though, all shell and no meat. They might well have been one of his automatons if it weren't for the black shell.”

Hornet nodded. Yes, that one. So they had met Herrah before. Would they remember? Would they know her mother, would they know Midwife, anyone or anything else about Deepnest? They recognized her, right? That was a good sign. She couldn't ignore it.

She took a minute to compose herself and said, “They were injured, and few spaces can accommodate them. I know the space is Herrah's, but I had little choice.”

Midwife took a couple steps out of her den, more legs ticking closer to Hornet. “I understand that, dear. Would you like me to come with you and check on them? I've been quite alone recently, little need of my services, and I have so wanted to see you again. I cannot say I've met your siblings as such, either.”

“So long as they come to no harm.” Hornet reminded herself she had just fed Midwife, and she had already expressed a disinterest in so much as a testing bite on them. Times had been hard in Deepnest, as they had been across Hallownest, but she could take this one step at a time. Help Midwife. Help Hollow. Check on Deepnest's residents. Check on Hallownest.

She led Midwife back to Herrah's chambers, to where Hollow stayed. Slept? She had never been certain if the Vessels slept or not, though she suspected they did.

“I remember coming here for you,” Midwife cooed as they passed through the halls, working their way up towards the den so close, just within sight. Hornet had heard this story most every time she and Midwife walked this path, but she never disrupted it. “Your mother wouldn't settle down, how hard it was to tell whether she was more excited or scared. Both, it's always both, but how much of each depends.”

Hornet could have recited the story herself, word-for-word. She listened to Midwife the rest of the way up, occasionally letting her know that yes, she heard her. As much as she had done this, paying some attention but not entirely, this time it stung. Mother had been gone for years, but now she would truly never come back. All she had left were stories.

Coming back again, Hornet realized it no longer smelled like her Deepnest home. It did smell of fresh silk still, and the blood still on her and the kills in her hand, but there was a distinct... nothingness. Like the scents were muted. And maybe the almost-must she had considered the scent of these chambers had faded over the years on its own, but she couldn't find it.

There was only Hollow, lying in their pile of sheets, unmoving. She spotted their shallow breaths with relief; they had made it this long, they were no weakling, but every second felt tentative.

“Hollow,” she said, rounding around the plinth (letting her fingers drag against the designs, feeling out the polished carvings as she hadn't for so long). She sat in front of them, placing one of her kills on the plinth before offering another to them. “This is Midwife. My caretaker.” She gestured to the bug in question, then back to them. “Midwife, this is Hollow. My sibling. I understand you've met previously, but may the fresh introductions help.”

“It has been so long! The princess here told me so much about you. Look at you, you're so-” Midwife stopped talking to inspect Hollow closer. She opened up her mask to peer more clearly at their face, eyes taking up every detail. The prongs of their horns, the slight feathering of Void outside their mask's eye holes, all of it. “Hmm. Gendered Child, who did you get to fix them up?”

The use of her childhood name struck her; it had been so long since she heard it. Few people addressed her by name as it was, but hearing herself called The Gendered Child again? It took her a second to find her words and answer. “A Weaver.”

“There's some left?” Midwife muttered. “No matter. Clearly these ones don't know patients go about healing better in a clean environment. This is no state to keep your horns in, Hollow, I hope you know that.” They did, no doubt, having grown up in the White Palace, but that did not stop Midwife. She scrubbed at Hollow's horns and face, hard enough to move their head around, but they gave no sign of protest. In fact, they seemed to lose the slight tension of a new introduction. “Our princess here had to learn, too, once. The White Lady ensured that, didn't she? I would have tried, or Herrah would have, but it was they who had her when she learned such skills. She taught them right back, though. Child of the Pale King or not, they were never going to get her in white and _keep_ her in white. Rambunctious little scamp, isn't she? I can say that, I've been there since Herrah came to me with this idea of hers.”

“They did watch me as a child,” Hornet said. She felt the kill she'd offered Hollow leave her hand, one remaining. She'd eaten many a bug raw, and with hunger stinging at her stomach, the idea tempted her. Waiting and cooking her last kill, the one she'd reserved for herself, would be a change of pace, though. Perhaps even a nice one. She should have offered the option to Hollow.

She watched them raise the vengefly to a spot under their mask. She had never seen their mouth, but she heard the crunch of breaking shell, saw a pale glow flowing from prey to predator before disappearing into Hollow's inky darkness.

Never mind. They were clearly fine with it as it was.

“Are you going to finish that off?” Midwife asked, a pointed gaze drifting to Hollow's vengefly.

Years of interacting with society told them of the command laced underneath the niceties. Hollow held the vengefly's drained, soulless corpse out, staying still as Midwife snatched it up and it disappeared down her gullet, as if they were offering a shy mosskin a droplet of dew instead.

“Thank you, dear. Now, Gendered Child, could you find me something to clean your sibling up with?”

“I'm Hornet,” she said, the words falling from her mouth like rocks. Before Herrah began to Dream and she moved to the White Palace and later the Hive, Hornet had attended namings. Between being Herrah's daughter and one of Midwife's charges, of course she had to go when the village held such a ceremony. Like any child of Deepnest, she'd dreamed of appearing before the village, her mother at her back, and announcing to the people who she was. Like any child of Deepnest, she'd gone around playing with different names, testing how they felt for herself. Once, she had bitten a boy who teasingly said her adult name ought to be Legless.

“Hornet?” Midwife tested the name in her mouth, muttering it to herself a few more times. Hollow watched her, head raised. But, of course, it was only Midwife who spoke. “Vespa, I imagine?”

Hornet nodded.

“Mmm. I see. Well, good for you, Hornet. I do still need to clean up here, though.” Midwife chuckled to herself.

Walking out of the room, some heaviness lifted off her shoulders, only for guilt to come crashing down on top of her for it. How could she feel relief by leaving her sibling alone? Not only that, but leaving the woman who'd wanted to see her for so long, too? And on top of that, her announcement of her name had been so... underwhelming. But could she blame Midwife when she had been scavenging so long, and heard so many namings? Not to mention Hollow's... everything. Nothing would be as it had been back when she was young.

The empty halls echoed her feelings back to her, all the way to the kitchen first to store her kill, then the washroom. Another room that had seen little use, but it had always primarily been Herrah using this room to clean herself, and the workers hadn’t had much in the way of clothing or sheets to clean in a long time.

She found the cloths here as instinctively as she found the sheets. She stared down at the tub, the buckets waiting beside it to bring in water, and took a deep breath. It no longer smelled clean, like the soaps and warmth that had always entranced her when she visited, all the scents different from what it was like at the White Palace or the Hive. The floor was not wet, but she stepped slowly up to the buckets to take one and bring it to the sealed barrel of water, opening the faucet just long enough to get the bucket three quarters full. No need to have water slopping all over the place. And it still looked fresh; she had not really needed to double-check, the water was supposed to never sour, despite its technical stagnant state. Hollow likely didn't need to worry about common illnesses, anyways. This was fine. She started away.

She hesitated in the doorway and returned to the washroom, searching through the sacks of supplies, all suspended in neat columns. At the discovery of a small chunk of soap she let out a soft, satisfied, “Ah!” and wrapped it in a cloth to bring back up.

Her footsteps along the path back to Herrah's chambers filled the space more than they ought to have, but now the task of not spilling the water or dropping anything occupied her. With a last leap, she landed in the chambers, to Midwife's approving coo.

Despite Midwife's best efforts, most of what had been on Hollow's horns was merely smeared around, with little success at actually clearing anything off. Though, the air in the room had changed. Hollow had been exhausted, tense, she could tell. But now she didn't read that off of them, not as much. They looked... almost content. Like when the Pale King sat with them while working, or they spent a weekend with the White Lady in her gardens. She didn't see them do it often, but in moments they thought they were alone, or it was just her, their facade faltered.

To Midwife, perhaps, they looked as lifeless as a child's toy when she took the supplies. As she soaked the cloths and rubbed the soap into them, she began to hum. Hornet knew the tune by heart, it was one of the many rhymes taught to young children. She and Hollow were well out of the age range for it. For a moment she bristled – her sibling was no child – but this was _Midwife_. Of course she would do what she knew. And, oddly enough, it seemed to be putting Hollow to sleep. Their breathing had evened out.

She took up the job of cleaning the left side of their face, scrubbing away the dust and dried pus. Soap scent filled in some of the gaps, covered up some of the blood lingering. Yet the nothingness conquered all.

Bubbles washed over her and Midwife's hands, and Hollow's face. None seemed to touch the sockets of their mask, and any that dared too close got shaken away. A couple caught on the prongs of their horns, lounging there, to Hornet's amusement. Her eternally stoic older sibling, with bubbles on their horns, wrapped in sheets, and Midwife humming nursery rhymes. Water and soap dripped onto the floor, rapidly wiped up with dry corners of Hornet and Midwife's cloths.

At last they'd cleaned Hollow's face to Midwife's satisfaction. Hornet dropped her cloth into the bucket. Her sibling was about to doze off, already sinking into the comfort of the sheets. Their arm drifted in front of their eyes again. Perhaps they had the right idea; it was getting late by now.

She moved to start snuffing out the candles when Midwife grabbed her and spun her around. She reached for her needle, only to stop when a freshly soaked cloth hit her face.

“You, too. You pick up grime, wandering around as you do.” Midwife ignored Hornet's stunned protests long enough for her to calm and give in to the doting. “There, isn't that better? More befitting. Now, you rest, and be sure to eat! You can't be running around on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, Midwife.” Hornet wormed her way out of her old caretaker's grasp as the cleaning session finished up. “I will see you again.”

“I do hope so, dear.”

Midwife left while Hornet snuffed a few of the candles. She looked back at her sibling, curled around the plinth. Did they not care at all what role it had served while they were chained away? Did they know?

She ran downstairs again to return the cleaning supplies and eat her dinner. She elected for minimal preparation; she had eaten food raw and near-raw enough while out on her duties. It didn't bother her. What was strange was the silence. This, she expected in the White Palace, but in Deepnest, there was always someone around to make chatter, often multiple someones.

She ate as quick as she could and returned to the chambers. Hollow roused when she entered, the glow of Soul fading from their wounds. The crack in their mask remained, entirely unhealed, but they looked stable, at least. And cleaner than they were. How long had it been since they had been clean?

Hornet wound her way to her sibling's front. She hesitated – she had been alone for so, so long. She had survived, she had done well on her own. But something wanted to burst in her, and Hollow had been alone for so long, too. Alone save for the Radiance, which cut even deeper.

She sat in front of them, legs crossed. Her hands found the sides of their face, the weight in them deepening as Hollow sunk into her touch. They couldn't even keep their head up, they were so tired. What was she doing, keeping them up?

“I'm Hornet,” she whispered, as if she had just gotten the name. Her eyes stared into theirs, seeking out any sign of a reaction, any understanding of who she was. She stroked their cheeks with her thumbs, something she had not dared to do since she was a small child and Hollow was a fascinating curiosity.

They craned their neck. She laughed and leaned in, their foreheads bumping against each other. They knew. They knew what it meant. They were happy for her.

“You need to sleep.” She stood, letting her hand rest against their head until she stepped away. She found a sheet for herself and snuffed the remaining candles, enveloping the room in darkness. Shedding her cloak, she wrapped herself up in the sheet she had chosen and laid down, her head not far from Hollow's. One hand worked out of the sheets, just in case she needed to grab her needle.

With the sounds of home around her, and her sibling safe and sound, Hornet drifted off.


	4. Flashback I : They Call Me

_Deepnest's memory faded by the day, replaced with the shining white of the palace and the warm yellow of the Hive. The Gendered Child did not think of it often, not any more. Instead she trained. Both the White Palace and the Hive taught her to wield a weapon, and both taught her how to lead, how to take charge of the people._

_Vespa was up-front about those lessons. The Pale King would probably rather she were too intimidated by the prospect to try at all. Yet she still watched him, and the White Lady, and Vespa, and gleaned what she could. She needed to be there for Deepnest one day, when she was old enough and Herrah's Decade Plan wasn't reliable enough._

_She had seen the plan before, vaguely remembered resting on her mother's back while she wrote, ink slashing across long scrolls of silk. Without anyone else qualified or permissible by the Devout to rule Deepnest, even in the interim while she Dreamed and her child grew, Herrah planned ahead._

_The morning had already detailed transitioning from the Decade Plan to her rule. The Gendered Child had absently licked honey from her fingertips while Vespa described the challenges that came with such change, and who she ought to turn to for help if she needed it._

_The afternoon, Vespa set a needle in her hands. As The Gendered Child tied silk from her bobbin onto the needle's eye, a Hive Knight approached, a nail in her hand. Her gaze was as soft as the plentiful fluff covering her body, but The Gendered Child knew the fight would not be any easier for it._

_The knight raised her nail. The Gendered Child tugged the last knot into place and threw it, calling out a battle cry. Let her voice flow with her body, let it lend power to her actions._

_The knight dodged, but not quick enough. Needle rang against armor and The Gendered Child reeled it back in. Her hand met its hilt as she leaped up, somersaulting over the Knight's head while the latter struck air where she had been._

_She was about to throw again when she spotted another Hive Knight reflected in the first's armor. She ducked and rolled away from the charge that would have bowled her over. With a deft flick of the wrist she threw a loop of silk out, tripping up the knight and sending them flying into their comrade._

_The rush drew a laugh from her and she charged in herself, jabbing and slashing at the Knights, weaving herself between their attacks._

_Another knight joined. The fight became a blur, red against yellow and black. Needle and nails flashed, silk flew. On a couple occasions, blood spattered the Hive's structures and the combatants declared themselves well enough to continue._

_But it ended when a nail slashed The Gendered Child's leg. She stumbled, barely able to fall away in time to avoid a nail now coming down on her head. The metal whistled by her face, glancing off her horn. She hit the ground hard. Black and blue flowed from the wound, mingling but never merging._

_“Hornet!” Vespa cried, reaching out for the child she'd taken in._

_They froze, knights and princess and all._

_Eventually, one of the knights offered a hand to The Gendered Child and helped her up, steadying her as she gingerly stepped towards Vespa. The others backed off, waiting for their queen to act._

_“Vespa?” Her leg hurt, and she wanted so dearly to sit down and bind it before continuing on. But was something wrong? Nobody here was named Hornet._

_Unless..._

_The queen's head dipped. “I was going to wait until after. Hornet, daughter of Deepnest, tend to your wounds. As should you, my knights.”_

_“Of course, Queen Vespa.” Hornet – Hornet, what a name – sat down on shaky legs, pulling out a length of silk to start fixing up the cut on her leg._

_She had a name._

_She had a_ name!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And one of the flashbacks! I did tag that those would be in here, right? Which reminds me, I need to tag Multiple POVs; we're going to be seeing things from more than Hornet's eye alone.
> 
> The flashbacks are supposed to be tied to the chapter preceding them, I might have to fudge how many chapters I post sometimes to make sure each flashback can stay with its buddy.


	5. Mother, Look What the War Did

“If I talk to the White Lady now, am I going to cost Hallownest its chance to create a new system of governance? And on the contrary, if I do not go to her now, will Hallownest be unable to recover in time for anything to rise from the ashes?” Hornet paced the length of the room, Hollow's empty gaze following her. “There are people left, the infection didn't kill everyone it took ahold of. I don't know if they'll return to the city, or go up to Dirtmouth, or what. If they do go to the city, how soon do they need a government? Most of the infrastructure is down, but will they prioritize it, or fight among themselves?”

She paused, and turned to her sibling in a huff. “You know, if you have any opinions on the matter, I could use them. You spent far more time with Father- with the King than I did.”

Nothing.

She pressed the heels of her palms into the upper edge of her eyes. “No, of course not. Okay. If there's not many people, they shouldn't need too much of a system thus far, right? I can handle it, I can make sure there aren't issues, and when the time comes, they'll be rebuilt enough we can draft up a more final system. One without god-kings. Look at where that got us.”

Turning again, she saw Hollow's head cocked and pulled inward, as if reacting to a bad stench. Or an insult, in this case.

“The kingsoul and the King's Brand are _gone_ , Hollow. Little Ghost took them, and they're gone. And I still need to plan their funeral.” She sunk down to her knees, overwhelmed. Rule Deepnest. Rule Hallownest. Dig both of them out of their encroaching graves. Dig an actual grave for her sibling.

They reached out, palm up. They were not supposed to be supportive, show any sort of empathy, when they were the Pure Vessel. If asked, they assisted others, or if they knew someone needed physical assistance, they did so. Defense, retrieving items, that sort of thing, not emotional support. Never anything with emotions. Their life was one of isolation. Or, it was intended to be so.

She pushed their hand away, fingers curling around theirs. She shook her head; what was she supposed to do first? How could she tell whether they were stable enough for her to leave alone for more than a day? They had been fine this long, that had to be worth something. They were not intended to answer questions, determining what they needed would be difficult. Something to drink the Soul out of, yes. Time to recuperate, yes. But how much? When?

And, right, a cloak.

That could be something to work on while she handled other tasks. She simply needed material first. The Weavers, at their current capacity of a pitiful lone soul, could not make it in one piece, not like they had done with her cloak. At the capacity they'd been at before the infection spread, making a full cloak for them would have been laborious. A masterpiece, she was certain, but laborious all the same.

Which left her with the sheets, and whatever thread she could find nearby. Her mother's things.

Would Herrah approve? Her mother would let her take what she needed for herself, and for the people of Deepnest, that she knew. But for something of the Pale King? For an outsider, born from the Pale King and White Lady, reborn from the Abyss, raised among the nobility of Hallownest. Her sibling, but not of the Deepnest side.

This was, technically, Herrah's shrine. She could ask. But it seemed silly. Really, what would be the point of asking to use a few sheets for her sibling?

If her mother were still living, though, she would ask. She ought to ask.

Just as she was beginning to repay her debt, of course. This had to be a once-off, it could not continue.

“Hollow,” she said, ducking past them to get to the plinth, “I do not know what you know of our ways. To you, this may seem strange or pointless, but I ask you to withhold any judgment. Or...” She eyed the doorway. This might work, but it depended on so many factors. “If, and only if, you are well enough to leave me be, please do. It will not be for long.”

They drew up to kneeling, looking around. Hornet ran to support them, pushing into their side as they wobbled their way upright. That they took so much of their weight at all was a miracle, or part of the mystery of being Void. They let her lead them out of the room, sinking down in the hallway, all huddled up. Were they tired? Cold? Unused to being without a cloak? “I won't be long,” she promised, and returned to the room.

Now alone, she stood before the plinth. Deep breaths focused her, slowly attuning her to the rhythms of the ritual and the mindset of spiritual work.

She drew her needle and, with a disciplined delicacy, cut the bottom of her cloak.

Needle tucked out of the way, she took a single red thread and pulled until it was free. She laid it out on the plinth, as smooth and straight as possible.

She pricked her finger, in the soft joint under the knuckle. Blue and black welled, then soaked into the thread as she pressed the drops on its ends, working her way inwards until she made eight dots in total. The queen of Deepnest would not answer for just anyone, and after this long, Hornet wanted her mother to know she was there.

“My question is simple, Herrah. Mother.” Hornet bowed her head, considering how best to proceed. “You know my sibling. The Pure Vessel, the Hollow Knight. Perhaps you know they must have been freed by Little Ghost, because they- because they-” She hiccuped. No. Focus on the ritual. Focus on intending the words for Herrah. “I apologize. As it stands, Hollow is freed from the temple. They were infected, horribly so. I am sure you can understand that between losing their arm to the infection and the wounds sustained in battle, they need time to recover.” Her voice had easily gained an octave. No. Calm. Focus.

She waited, breathed, focused, until she felt her voice wasn't soaked through with tears. “It is a simple question, really. As the thread I offer may imply, I need fabric. I was thinking some of the sheets, since they are readily available. I do not know if I can salvage their cloak, it is in tatters. I am sorry I brought it into your chambers at all. So, please, if you can, let me know if I may or may not use them. If I see no sign... I must default to making them something. Even if it means making a quilt of my old things, though I _was_ planning on giving them to anyone still in Deepnest.”

The image of Hollow wearing a giant, silken quilt dragged a giggle out of her. That she knew they would wear it without complaint (and little choice about the matter) did not help.

But she had to think of her purpose here as a whole. The sound died, and she regained her composure. “I will try to take care of our people as they need. I just need to find where to start.”

Her hands fell upon the plinth. “And Mother, I... I miss you.”

Seconds stretched by in the silence. Nothing, then, was it? Or she would have to act to get any sort of answer? She whispered a goodbye, pulling the thread off the plinth as she passed by to look through the cabinets once again, see if anything struck her.

A mushroom brown immediately drew her eye, soft and warm. Next to it, mossy greens. She had paid them little mind, what with the jewel tones right there, but perhaps Hollow would like them better. They never struck her as flashy.

Ideas bubbled away. She ran out and pulled Hollow back into Herrah's room; they could have stood almost straight, but bent over so she could hold their hand. They eyed the altar, the eight dots on it, and she saw them tap their thumb against where her finger wrapped around their hand, seeking out any more blood.

Hornet pulled one green sheet and the mushroom sheet out of their place. She had a couple green ones, but only the one brown, but maybe she could make this work.

“Do you like this color with the green? Or, at the very least, would you accept it for a new cloak? Nod if it works, otherwise, shake your head.” Hornet threw the brown sheet around their shoulders, fussing with it while she spoke. She could layer it like their old cloak, but it needed shape of some sort. Something other than the look of a bunch of rectangles thrown together. Maybe she could trim it into a circle, and from there cut a neck opening and a line leading from that to the outer edge, so it could be clasped closed. Then attach the green sheets to it, and trim those into the shape of beetle wings. She only had the material for one shot at this, without even a mockup, she had to get it right the first time.

They nodded.

She set herself to the task, wrapping pieces around them, using her needle to pin things together and see how long they were (ankle-length on them, all in total), tracing out where she would cut and hem parts. She'd leave a vent at the bottom of the cloak, she decided. Not a long one, but perhaps it would make the seam down the middle seem more intentional.

“It won't look very much like your old one, I apologize, but it's more than nothing.”

She got nothing in response. She expected as such, but part of her had wondered if they would open up more, do something without her direction.

That day, she dedicated to sewing and strategizing. She fetched a smaller, sewing-sized needle and thread of the proper grade, among other materials. A few measurements and cuts later, she had marked out where to sew the green onto the brown and shaped them into rounder pieces.

To say she brainstormed with Hollow as she worked was a stretch. They never responded, showing only the slightest signs of thought when she proposed something on the extreme end of ridiculous. The fact they sometimes watched her stitches when she got invested and was not particularly looking at them was so much more than they would dare to show before being locked away.

By the time she was ready to go out and hunt again, she had figured out a schedule and had hemmed the brown fabric. She laid the piece over Hollow's shoulders, reevaluating the fit. The neck of it didn't reach their mask like their old cloak did, but it would work fine. Maybe she'd retrieve the old pin and clean it so they could put it to use.

On a whim, she said, “Do you think you could hem some of it?”

They stared at her.

She sat back down, piling one of the green pieces into their lap. She threaded the needle again and knotted the thread, showing them how to roll it so they could knot the thread on their own. She tested the tiny, almost invisible stitch she had been using with one hand before passing it off to Hollow again, watching their first attempts at stitches. They were sloppy; the needle was miniature in Hollow's grasp, and their hand shook. Crooked stitches stared back at her, far too many threads picked up for what was supposed to be a small stitch, and inconsistent amounts of threads at that.

She could reinforce it later if needed. Getting up, she touched their shoulder. “Continue hemming. The practice will help.”

Without any other form of acknowledgment, they continued stitching, clasping the fabric between their knees and bringing it close to their face so they could get a better look. If anything, it could at least help them adjust to fine motor movement again. What had they done for all these years, besides be chained up and swing their nail around when Little Ghost freed them? Even at the Palace, she didn't remember them doing any sort of crafts, she had never even seen them write. They needed something different to do.

Certain enough her sibling would be fine for the time being, she left to hunt.

She reviewed her schedule in the meanwhile, the plans she'd built up.

Today would be setting up for the next few days. Getting food, preparing a project, ensuring Hollow was well enough to be left alone, and the like.

Then she would explore what remained of Hallownest, beyond where she needed to go to hunt. If possible, she would get people to group up and help each other, perhaps warn them away from the temple for the time being.

Next was visiting the White Lady and discussing matters with her. She didn't know whether to bring Hollow to that or not.

And then she needed to bury Little Ghost. With only a mask, she did not have to worry about rot overtaking them. But she didn't want to leave their mask out for anyone to stumble upon, either.

So she would retrieve their mask tomorrow, as she explored, and bring it home.

With Hollow working on a new task to help them rehabilitate, all she had to do was hunt.

It was well late by the time she decided she was finished and returned to Deepnest. Again she made her circuit, disguising her growing exhaustion with an increasingly cold shoulder and an intense but wavering focus on traversing her home.

Returning to Herrah's chambers, she barely acknowledged Hollow on the way down to the kitchen. She passed them a bug and kept going, the crunch of chitin sounding as she wandered through the doorway.

Prepping the few remaining kills was so rote, only interrupted by the mental effort to find what she needed. She cleaned up the blood, disposed of the shells and odd undesirable parts, cut the meat into reasonable pieces, salted and packed it. The time and actions passed in a blur, reducing the work to the sound of a butcher's knife slicing through meat, clacking against the counter in the process, the smell of flesh and salt, the physical effort of dragging everything around, including her own limbs. At one point, the sting of her knife nicking her jolted her from her sleepy reverie, only for her to sink back in as she sucked on the wound and scolded herself for being careless.

They kept a hammock in the kitchen, more like a shelf made of thinner material attached to the wall and ceiling than a free-hanging seat. But still, it was something to sit in and take a rest before returning to Hollow. She hopped into it and sank into the stiff surface with a sigh. A short slide sent her onto her back, and she curled up with her legs brushing the walls.


	6. A Brand New World Takes Shape

Hollow! Where was Hollow?

Hornet almost fell out of the hammock before jumping properly out of it, the drop from it to the floor jolting her enough she remembered what had happened. Right. She passed out in the kitchen after preparing food for storage and travel.

Rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her eyes, she went to make the climb to Herrah's chambers.

The quietness of the place struck her. During the times she was in Herrah's custody, she was not often the first awake, though she was an early riser. The skittering of people going about the morning's duties accompanied her waking moments, but now there was nothing. Only the sound of her plucking the threads and the thump of her needle in the wall when she needed it.

Then of all things, when she reached the den, she heard murmuring. For the shortest second, she thought Hollow had been hiding a voice from her this entire time, but they didn't use the sort of tone she would have thought of them.

No, that sounded like Midwife's voice.

Peering inside, she did indeed find Midwife, fussing over Hollow like she would any of her other charges. They laid in the sheets, the pieces of their cloak folded roughly and shoved into an open cabinet. Midwife halfway encircled them, their upper body pulled up against her. She probed under their bandages, sponging away any Void that had seeped out.

“Midwife?”

“Oh!” The centipede giggled, one leg tapping against her mask. She whispered something to Hollow and rose, turning over herself so she was in Hornet's face. “There you are. This one managed to get out, I hope you know. They found me and gave me their leftovers.”

Hornet nodded. She wanted to explode. Hollow snuck out? On their own? In _Deepnest?_ While recovering from stab wounds and losing their arm, not to mention everything that came with being chained up?

“Poor thing, couldn't quite make it back home. I brought them back here, of course, I'd be loathe to leave someone this thoughtful out in the open. It's so nice to have company at last. It's been so terribly lonely. Are you going to be staying here today?”

Hornet rubbed her eye again, more to avoid confronting Midwife's question than anything. Leave it to her old caretaker to make her feel guilty about not visiting more often when she'd been putting off running Hallownest for too long as it was. “No, I cannot stay. I have my duties, and I need to return to them.”

“I see.” Disappointment and loneliness laced Midwife's voice. She returned to Hollow to give them a soft reprimand about moving a certain way and how that could impact the integrity of their bandages or their healing. “I can check in on your sibling some times while you're gone, if you would like. Please do return often, though. You have a knack for showing up right as I feel so, so famished.”

“Don't bite my sibling,” Hornet muttered. And with that, she went to retrieve some food for the road (and a little extra for Midwife), along with finding another spool for her needle.

Exploring Deepnest was instinctual. She dodged around the remaining creatures, fending off the spare few that attacked her. She did not aim to kill, not now. She would leave that to others, or for the creatures to breed and replenish their numbers. Balance was key to Deepnest's survival, her family, her people always told her. As key as it was to all the other places, even if Hallownest struggled to realize it. She recalled the nobility scoffing at places like the Mantis Village, the Hive, and Deepnest, calling them uncivilized. She also recalled Midwife scoffing right back when Hornet returned from a stay with her father repeating their babble and the following explanation the queen gave explaining why Hallownest nobles knew nothing.

 _”The world will heal after us,”_ Herrah had told her daughter, one of the few conversations Hornet recalled with clarity. _”It has been ravaged time and time again, and every time, it comes back. Not the same, but that is because it learns from its failures.”_

As it was, the world was still in shock from the wound it has received. She did not know if the blood had yet staunched, but it would pick itself up when it was ready.

There were not many of her people left here. Between the plague and so many of the Weavers leaving, Hornet had just enough to scrape them together and suggest they go to the village to recuperate for now, where she could better watch over them when she was free from the coming days' tasks. Not all wanted to leave their homes, though, forcing Hornet to mark down where they were in her mental map of the place. After so long exploring the expanses of Hallownest, Little Ghost's maps felt redundant. Incomplete, even, in some places. But they only had so much time, didn't they? Of course they could not chart every last corner.

With Deepnest clear for now, she elected to work from the bottom up. Which meant the next stop was the Ancient Basin.

She stood to the entrance of the Abyss, needle at her side, staring so far up at the imposing doors. Her father stood beyond those once, judging her siblings and deeming all but one not worthy. What had it been like, to crawl up from the depths, watching your siblings' bodies fall all around you? She had stood within the Abyss once, not daring to go down from her perch. Its depth sunk fear deep into her stomach, icing up her veins. All the broken masks, all the shades lurking in the depths, shining white eyes glimpsing her every so often. Did they recognize her as family then? Would they now? Did they feel the Pale King's blood within her, the trace of Void that made her look like any other vessel at a glance? She had wondered why she looked so when she was young. Herrah was blue, the Pale King white, so why had her chitin always been black?

The Pale King's experiments tainted him, and that corruption spread to her before she had formed within the egg. That was the only sensible explanation for her.

The door creaked. She turned and left it be.

The basin was in much the same state as Deepnest, save for the fewer sentient beings. Corpses everywhere from the infection and all its harshness, the unnerving quiet, the hanging weight in the air, pressing down from the entire city and waterways above.

Little Ghost awoke the trams, she realized. The warm lights glowed in the tramcar, bathing her as she approached. Under her cloak she fiddled with the beaten old pass she kept on hand. She hadn't much used it since the kingdom proper fell, preferring to explore the passageways on her own.

But, out of curiosity, she swiped her pass and stepped inside the cart.

The car shone with the past's opulence. Dust and the dullness of neglect coated everything, but the metals stood out underneath. Taking a deep breath, the scent of carapace filled Hornet's lungs, the source being a dead conductor. Around them, a darkened ring of rot stained the carpet.

She hit the button, already scratched with the mark of another nail, and the machine lurched to life.

She could not bring herself to rest in a chair for the trip. No, she stayed near the windows, watching out over the land. If all else failed, she told herself, she ought to read over Little Ghost's map, see what they pointed out as important. People, perhaps. Hornet met with few people outside of official duties.

Very little passed by. Ruins, sunken into the darkness. Overgrowth and old traps, presenting hazards she had long ago learned to navigate. This was the land she inherited, the wreckage she had dedicated herself to protecting.

All this time, she had told herself it would be worth it. Once the infection was dealt with, things would improve, and there would be reason to the world again. Yet now, with all of the Radiance's bitter orange glow drained away, she couldn't see it. It was a simultaneous issue of too much and too little – too much damage, too much destruction, too much to do to return anything to a functional level, and too few people to make Hallownest anything near what it her father made it to be.

Her fist clenched around her needle. But wasn't that the point? She wasn't Herrah. She wasn't the Pale King. She wasn't a vessel. She was Hornet, her own person, who took charge her way.

She sighed and rested upon the bench. But would it be worth it if she wiped everything out and started again? There were ways of being, traditions, all these cultural aspects from the massive to the minuscule. How many did she need to preserve? How many ought she preserve?

Though she had spent her early years in Deepnest, the thought of being its queen felt worse. She had so much to live up to. She had so much to do to repay her debts, to bring her people back together and not just reassure them they were separate from Hallownest but to act it, too. Plus, she wasn't sure she had it in her to take upon _all_ her duties.

But that was a matter she would discuss with Hollow, when she returned to them. They would listen, and provide no judgment, just as she needed. She needed to start with them, the idea of talking about it with Midwife and the remaining Weaver _scared_ her. Let alone the Devout.

If only her mother could be here, newly awakened with the freeing of Hollow, and able to counsel her, or better yet, take over until Hornet was ready to rule.

The train coasted to a stop. Hornet stood, whipping out Ghost's map for the area to scrutinize as she walked on.

She had no choice.


	7. I Walk Like a Lost Child

Midwife had cared for many, many children over her years, and the odd invalid who needed a helping hand, but even then, there was something different about The Hollow Knight.

Where to start with that one? The blank gaze, the tendency to lie where placed like a child's toy dropped in a rush? The unfinished cloak waiting for them, the abysmal stitches showing how far they had to go before they were better, and at the same time the one sign in this whole place that there was more to them than being an oversize limp doll? The Void leaking from their wounds?

They seemed even less vibrant than the last time they were here, upon Hornet's hatching. Perhaps that was exhaustion, they had clearly gone through a lot. The Pale King had conditioned them well, though, but even back then she had noticed a liveliness to them. Now, even when they came to her without any orders, and most certainly free from their father's restrictions, she sensed something different to them.

She fetched the cloak in progress, along with the sewing supplies Hornet had left with them. She pressed a threaded needle into their hand, their fingers curling around it after a second. As for herself, she settled herself around hem, threaded another needle, and got to work hemming another part. Their horned head leaned into her side, awkward and weighty compared to the rest of them. No wonder she'd never seen them with their head held high.

“Are you going to sew?” she asked them. At her question they fumbled with the fabric, looking for where they had left off last.

She hummed while they worked, sinking into the rhythm of the stitches. She was no Weaver, but she had steady limbs and more practice than Hollow did. They tried their best, though, so intent on their work she didn't know if they heard the odd encouragement she gave them.

As the silence stretched on, she started up a conversation. A very, very one-sided one.

“You really are a funny creature,” she said. When she thought she saw their head incline, she added, “Oh, I mean no insult! What I say is that you're quite unlike anything that calls Deepnest home. It's the same with Hallownest, isn't it? You may have your father's eyes, dear, and your mother's face, but you're no city bug, or palace noble.”

They stared at her. They hadn't changed position much at all, but she got the deep sense of their gaze boring into her.

“What?” She chuckled. “Do you think I cannot tell you're of the King and Lady's brood? Look at you.” She tilted their head, up and to the side, their horn lightly digging into her carapace. “He always looked like something weighed him down, too. Not to mention all the times Hornet came home from staying at the Palace and told me all about you! She adored you, her very tall sibling.”

She didn't know if their gaze had softened at the story, but she continued on nonetheless. “Oh, she has plenty of blood in Deepnest, aunts and uncles and cousins and everything, but you! When the Kingsmoulds brought her back the first time, she ran to Herrah and I talking about you like a revelation. She's always teetered on the thin thread of whether she was us or not. She resembled nobody here, and nobody there but you. She loved you so. Still does. But ah, she's grown some since you last saw her, hasn't she?”

Hollow seemed to go more vacant than usual, then they turned to their cloak and continued hemming, drawing their legs up to their face to hold the fabric even closer.

What a tragedy it had been, when the time came and the Pale King sent his summons to Deepnest, calling for both Herrah and Hornet. Herrah presented her daughter with a needle, crafted like a dream and too big for the child still awaiting her molts into adolescence, and told her to keep the people safe. Hornet did not know all the details of her mother's deal, but she knew something was wrong, and the princess's sobs wracked the tunnels she called home.

Was it better or worse that it took a few more visits between Deepnest and the White Palace for Hornet to realize she had not just happened to miss her sibling each time? Midwife often found her by Herrah's plinth on the occasions Hornet was home, but when she returned to find the child crying for the first time since her mother began to dream...

Midwife had no choice but to explain everything then.

“I don't think she ever recovered,” she whispered to herself.

No.

Who could truly heal after learning she was born at the cost of two lives so dear to her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Double update this week, one chapter next week, chapter after that has an attached flashback. Hopefully I did my math right.


	8. The Things We Lost

Raindrops danced down the rooftops in the City of Tears, falling with their eternal, happy grace. Everything sparkled in the damp, every shingle and lift and detail. Lumafly lamps glowed, cool, bright, and distant. The tears of the ground above ran down Hornet's horns, temples, and the curve of her eyes.

Every footstep splashed in the cobblestones. She left a trail of ripples in her wake, the edge of her cloak clinging to her as it grew wetter and wetter.

When she heard rasping voices she pivoted and leaped across the bridges and canals until she found their source.

The sentries had been lucky, strong enough in body to maintain life independent of the infection. Yet a cluster of them huddled together now under the eaves of the buildings, shivering and weak, staring out at the expanse of the city beyond them. Some laid across their fellows, each breath labored, and Hornet felt a pang of remorse that she could do nothing for those who had been more eaten within. All clutched their weapons like lifelines.

When one spotted Hornet's approach, he struggled to his feet and pointed his nail at her. “Who goes?” he called, voice barely able to reach her. A few others looked to see what bothered him, and shifted with unease. “We allow no looters, no trespassers!”

She hopped closer, still well outside of their range. By her luck, none of the lancers seemed up to throwing their weapons at her, let alone leading a charge. “Stay your nail. I am Hornet, daughter of the Pale King. I seek those who survived the infection so we can rebuild our home.”

The sentries whispered among themselves. One of the winged ones, lying across the lap of one of the grounded sentries, raised a shaking finger at her. “No, listen. I know her. That is the princess.”

Lillien? It couldn't be. Hornet stepped forwards, pulled in by the familiarity. Yes, it was Lillien, it had to be. Her carapace was dull, but had the same speckles, and the voice was weak but right for her. It had been so long since Hornet lived at the palace and Lillien was a sentry in training, a few years older and eager to demonstrate anything involving a nail. The sentry she leaned on must have been Mikei, provided Lillien's affections hadn't drifted to someone else.

The two clasped hands when they were within reach. Hornet tapped her forehead against Lillien's, squeezing her old friend's hand at the rattle in her sigh. Rain slid between them, cool against their carapaces.

“You survived.”

Lillien did her best to laugh, the sound little more than a rough cough. Mikei squirmed and stroked her head, the edge of his hand barely touching Hornet, flinching from her. Lillien leaned into his touch, eyes closing. “For now. I'm sure you've taken right to the quiet.”

Hornet sat back. Her head listed, grip loosening on Lillien's hands. Improper, she should have stayed strong for the sentinels, they should not have to acknowledge her weaknesses. “Seeing Hallownest survive is more important than any pleasant moments in its shadow. We cannot wait to begin rebuilding. If people return, the matter will only become more unwieldy. We will start small, but basic services must return.”

“In the City?” a heavy sentinel asked, low voice rumbling with uncertainty. She looked around, hand drifting to her mouth.

“If there are many more people around, yes.” Hornet stood, offering a hand to Lillien. Her friend took it and tried to stand, only to sink back down. Hornet eased her back into her position, with Mikei taking her back. He wrapped his arms around her, eyes shiny and full of concern. “There is the town above, Dirtmouth, but it is small, it couldn't take a large group moving in.”

“Princess-”

Hornet whirled around, startled by the address. Needed in her official duties already, as it seemed. If she kept them. Right now, the idea of telling them to readjust their government tempted her.

But sentries would be too strict for the civilians.

It wouldn't work.

An older sentry met her gaze, already snapped back into their usual posture and formal tone. “Perhaps we could begin, ah, in the spire? It is prominent, and our barracks was ravaged during the infection. If Watcher Lurien permits, of course.”

The Watcher's Spire stood strong, as if few had bothered to mess with it. Its roof pierced the rain, the large and dark windows perfect for observing anything and everything from. A safe haven and a perfect lookout for anyone who may stumble into the city. Hornet knew it was not so clean and iconic inside; Little Ghost had passed through on their quest to unseal the temple, and of course there would be a trail of death in their wake, drained of the infection, yet as gone as any other bug.

“Watcher Lurien is no more,” she told the sentry. With a flash her needle stabbed at the tower, rain seeping down it and onto her hand, dripping down from her wrist. She had not known the Watcher well, but taking up his space without any sort of asking or offering felt wrong. Perhaps she would leave his soul something; then again, she doubted he gave much mind to Deepnest's rituals. Nor had she done much to give her own mother that courtesy. Dreamer or not, he had been and always would be a city bug. “Use his spire as a sanctuary. Help any you come across. Those who can, find resources and distribute them. I cannot stay, but I do not wish to come back and hear of unfair treatment. Am I understood?”

Mutters of “Yes, Princess” and similar effects chorused around her.

How Father would have reacted, seeing her be addressed as a legitimate princess of Hallownest. He had been firm on that matter, that she was heir of Deepnest, not Hallownest. She had her people, he had his. The White Lady backed him up, gently imploring that Hornet accept this divide. Wyrms were territorial, she said. Even ones who left their wyrm body to decay in coils, burrowed into the kingdom. Best not to go up against that sort of instinct. Besides, would Deepnest not be happier separate from Hallownest?

As the sentries moved, she left. The city could not keep her too long, not when the crossroads awaited. Not when the temple and Little Ghost's broken mask awaited.

She encountered other groups of sentries, smaller, with more injured than relatively healthy. Once, a sentry watched her approach, only to pass away by the time she left again. She could not let the pain keep her, though, or trouble her mind. Not now. Building now, mourning later. For now, she told each group the same thing: go to the spire. Find the others. Recuperate. Help anyone.

As she took an elevator up, towards the city's edges where it met the crossroads, Hollow and Little Ghost haunted her. Was her living sibling okay? She could not doubt Midwife's skill, but something bit at her. There was always a chance something could happen, that Midwife would fall short, or miss something, and when she returned, Hollow would be gone. Or they would have wandered off in search of the Abyss, to return from whence they came. Join their siblings, and maybe join Little Ghost, too. Maybe Void returned to Void.

Why hadn't they disappeared like Little Ghost did? She had seen the shades deep in the Abyss, she had seen Ghost be injured so greatly their own shade split off from them, their Void reforming into their body and their... spirit? But they always got up and destroyed it and absorbed it again like everything was just fine. Why hadn't they done that in the temple? Why hadn't Hollow shattered and become a shade and been put to rest like Ghost?

She stared at her carapace, pinched nothing between her fingers and squeezed, feeling the pressure build. If she were killed, would she be Void, too? It tinted her and flowed within her, but it didn't keep her safe in the temple. It didn't grant her natural abilities with Soul, not like the Vessels had. As far as she could tell, its only advantage was she cared less about the Vessels' coldness. Her father was a being of Light, and she knew her mother's moniker of Beast came in part from pedigree. Yet she was not as adept with magic as her father; she had spent years draining her own Soul to make her silk before learning how to do it properly, and even now she couldn't conceptualize her magic beyond silk. And her mother? Her mother bore her with the intent of her being something else, though Hornet could not deny her heritage.

Cold tolerance for her siblings in particular, in exchange for a lifetime of being _different._ She scoffed. What a worthy tradeoff.

Yet it was her life. Her mother's gift to her, and her debt to repay.

She was not Light. She was not Void.

That left Beast. Half-Beast, half-wyrm.

But her mother's title was not hers to take. In time, she told herself, her people would let her come into her own, adding an epithet as all royals had, marking them above and beyond the rest. Until then, she was not the _Pale_ King. She was not the _White_ Lady. She was not Herrah the _Beast._

Lillien, back when neither she nor Hornet yet cared for propriety, had jokingly called her Hornet the _Grumpy._ When Lillien began showing interest in the other young sentries, Hornet feared her moniker would become the Lonely. What was she to do? The one crush she got then was on the same girl Lillien was smitten with at the time, she wouldn't confess to that.

The elevator clacked against the pulley at its top. Its door fell open, swinging slightly, too loose on its hinges. The crossroads breathed their unique must, well-trodden dirt and just enough fresh air perfect to sustain the smallest motes of spores from the lusher lands to the west. She stepped out, evaluated, and, finding nothing but the odd tiktik, she ran.

She found an exhilaration in running, jumping, swinging from her needle and silk. Her lungs worked, her blood rushed. The exertion warmed her, and her cloak fluttered and snapped with her movement. The crossroads offered less room to maneuver than some spaces, but it was something.

As she ascended, the thrill of movement gave way to nerves. She was here for the temple. For her sibling.

A child's voice in her whispered, _”Are we going to find Mother?”_

She stilled outside the temple's entrance. The door loomed, wide open, air whispering through it like a sigh. No sign of the Dreamers' seal remained; no crackle of magic in the air. Only the pressing Void.

This had to be fast. She could not linger, she had already tested her endurance here once, and what if going in, she found her tolerance for this place weakened? No, it did not contain a Higher Being any more, but the Void alone was enough to prove fatal.

She steeled herself and thumbed her needle. Ready, aim... the needle flew, with her clutching the silk.

Darkness enveloped her, more oppressive than anywhere else in the entirety of Hallownest. Her cloak whipped and her needle whistled, the only sounds breaking the air. Even then, they sounded... close. As if they would not go further than beyond her face. She caught flashes of glowing words, of a bench.

It opened to a crater, and to Hollow's chambers. The needle stuck in the wall and she swung around it, pulling it free as she dropped to the ground.

She took a deep breath and coughed. She wouldn't be able to leave the same way. Already she could feel her strength begin to wane, and she'd have to carry Little Ghost with her.

She skidded down the rim of the crater. The rocks bit at her feet with a vengeance, as if they were somehow sharper than those elsewhere. Like the Void had imbued its anger in them, too, somehow.

Her eyes adjusted little by little to the dark. The chains clarified against the ceiling; their links worn, some broken. Slightly shiny patches smeared the walls, the floor, everything in sight. Focusing, she could see where pustules had burst versus the long stretches of spray where Hollow had lanced the infection out of themself. Even for how big they were, there was so much. How could all of it fit in their body?

She closed her eyes and clenched a fist. She couldn't avoid this. She knew where they were. All she had to do was turn her head...

And look.

Little Ghost's mask faced away from her, but broken as it was, the eye sockets peeped at her through the separate halves. Hornet stepped towards them, knelt.

She didn't want to touch them. She had to. Her hands wavered above the halves, as if giving Little Ghost one last chance to reform.

She had to.

Her hands clamped down on the halves. They clacked together with a hollow sound and a slight scrape. She tucked them to her chest, transferring them to one arm as she picked up the small shards scattered around.

It felt wrong, but she had nowhere else to put them. She slipped the shards into one of her cloak's pockets.

Beyond the charms she had already picked up, her hand lingered over the few other items they kept on hand, now uncovered by the Void that had drained from the bottom of the crater. A strange, circular thing with a handle – she had seen them use it on Hollow, it had become an ethereal nail, but she had no clue as to its purpose. A multitude of shriveled, Void-stained eggs, their sulfurous stench thankfully covered up by the black fluid soaking them. Why, Little Ghost? There were a few other trinkets, too, a journal filled with etches of various creatures found around Hallownest – and was that herself? Disturbing. She pushed that aside, instead pocketing the nail handle and the couple of Hallownest seals they had, for some reason. She was reasonably certain she recognized one of them as Ze'emer's. Not that the Great Knight had been seen since the Mantises had their split.

Choking down the nausea of this whole thing, she got to her feet. No more. No more need to go in here, to be haunted by its memory. Some day, she would find a way to seal it up again, empty. Never again would she, or anyone else, call for the creation of Vessels to do something like this.

Her foot falling heavy, she began the walk out of the temple for the second and, she swore to herself, the last time.


	9. Flashback II: Gotta Leave You All Behind

_Why was Father in Deepnest? She was the only one who didn't know, it seemed. A kid had run in to Midwife's den while The Gendered Child and some of the other children were there, saying two strange white figures were here._

_Whatever was going on was enough trouble for Midwife to wiggle her way free from her tunnel, herding her horde of Weaverlings (and the princess) back into the village proper. Far above, by the den she called home, were three very familiar figures._

_“Mama! Lady!” the princess called. Her voice didn't carry far enough for them to hear. Desperate, she had clambered up from the bottom, a rapid parkour of threads and what platforms she could find._

_She had run right to her mother's side and accepted being picked up, even though everyone from Father to Midwife to Mother said she was too big for it. Mother hadn't picked her up in forever. She clutched her mother's hood anyways, only peeking out at Father and the Lady when Father spoke. Was it just her, or was he giving her a funny look? Like she'd poked him with a needle?_

_“Herrah, it's time. We cannot stave off the infection through our usual means any more. We need you.” Father nodded to Mother. The Lady's head was bowed; what was wrong? Why was she upset?_

_“Mama, what's happening?” The Gendered Child asked. In response, Herrah lowered her to the floor, hand brushing her head in response to her scared hiccup._

_The Queen of Deepnest reached behind her back to produce a needle. The Gendered Child had seen many needles, and knew this one, oh, this one was beautiful. It was much smaller than Herrah's, yet it looked just as strong, just as pointed, pure of imperfections._

_Herrah knelt and rested its hilt in her child's hands, closing her fingers over the metal. She took a deep breath, like she did before she trained with her own tapestry needle. To steady herself, she had always explained._

_“Our time together is limited. My daughter, you must grow strong in my absence. I will teach you what I can in the days we have left, but when I am gone, I need you to protect our people. They will need you. You are clever, and thoughtful, and I could not be more proud of you. I trust you. Take care of them.”_

_The demigod princess, daughter of the Pale King and Herrah the Beast, future Queen of Deepnest, screamed._

_Tears flowed down her cheeks. She barely paused for breath, and when she did it rattled through her lungs and she coughed out half the air, anyways. The noise and the tears flowed uncontrollably. She wanted to stop, someone usually told her to stop, it was unbecoming. Today, though, one hand eased the needle from her grip and Herrah scooped her up again. Not even Father told her no, she couldn't cry._

_She sobbed into her mother's hood. Anger rose up – how could Mother leave? How could Father ask her to? She screamed again and pounded on her mother's shoulders. Impassive to the small hands striking her, Herrah stroked her daughter's back._

_“Let's go,” Herrah said. She strode alongside Father and the Lady, with the pretty new needle glinting from Father's side._

_It was the last time Herrah would see Deepnest ever again. She returned home on a litter, sleeping as they moved her onto her plinth._


	10. Say Goodbye to Your Mother, Your Father, Your Son

Without the infection to fear, passage through the Crossroads into Greenpath was trivial, and that next leg of the journey stood promising as well. A calm had settled over Unn's lands, one above and beyond the softness that had been so strange and foreign when Hornet first entered the territory. She had visited the tamed greenery of the Queen's Gardens, but to see the plush mosses and thick flora covering every last bit of the place, bordered only by the pools of acid here and there? She didn't know what to do with herself. Where were the sharp edges of the City and the White Palace? Where were the tight (outsiders might call them claustrophobic) tunnels and familiar swarms of Deepnest? What of the delicate, precise structures of the Hive?

Over time, she found herself enjoying the place, despite its alien landscape. When the Moss Knights fell to the infection, almost to the number, she began leaving Unn offerings at her temple. Gods faded away without their worshipers, and what had Unn done besides give this place life? Hornet's offerings alone would not bring a god to their full glory, but a single god at their peak was a dangerous thing. Gods did not take threats well. Father had been proof enough of that, as had the Radiance.

She would have passed through without any trouble, but habit pulled her to the lake's edge, the faint mist of acid burning against her shell and along her throat. She entered the temple, increasingly aware she had nothing to offer but her words.

A group of moss knights startled, grabbing their nails and shields. She whipped her needle from its sheath. “I come to make my offerings to Unn, but if you will not permit that, so be it. I will not, however, take threats.”

One by one the knights lowered their arms, and Hornet did, too. Weariness gripped the knights, harder to see under their mossy camouflage than on the city guards. Scars danced along their shells where the infection had burst through.

Eyes dropped to the broken halves of Little Ghost's mask, held under her arm. Hornet pushed through them, holding Ghost's mask closer to her thorax as she approached the altar. Charcoal smudged it in flowing lines, and as she got closer the scent of incense laid heavy in her lungs. The cones burning in the back gave off thin wisps of smoke, giving the air a light haze.

She used to rest her entire hand on the altar, but now she pressed two fingers into the space between charcoal lines; any more, and she would disturb them. Shutting her eyes, she began her prayer. May the Greenpath recover from the damage done to it. May Unn be well, and her people be strong.

Moss hushed against itself as something moved.

May the temple be the place of refuge it was built to be.

Footsteps grew closer.

May all be in balance.

Hornet's back prickled and she whirled around, facing one of the moss knights. Tired eyes beheld her, not fazed by the way she had to steady her breathing, or relax her death grip on Ghost's mask.

“You're grieving,” said the knight, his voice a rasping sigh. “Come, stay a while, and mourn with us.”

“I have my duties, I cannot stay.” Hornet lifted her fingers from the altar, rubbing them against her thumb to ensure she had no charcoal on them.

“Would you let a wound fester?”

“No, but-”

The knight slowly reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed. His touch was light, but she could not bring herself to push him away. “It is not so different, as much as it may feel that way. Please. You have made the journey here, same as us. Let us set our travels aside and see if we can salve your heart. You don't have to stay long.”

The mourning circle was tight, the knights packed in close to each other. They gave Hornet more distance than they gave their brethren, but the close presence of what must have been a dozen others made her arms prickle. Between the bodies and the incense, everything felt small. Compressed. Closing in on her.

Still, she listened. One by one the moss knights told their stories. They spoke of lost lovers, children, siblings, friends, family. They spoke of the difficulty of moving on, seeing all the change that had come over Hallownest. Some admitted to feeling free, others wished they could have only known Hallownest as it was before.

They were so open about their hurt. Hallownest sounded so painful, listening to them. Yet they reaffirmed each other, murmured their support, offered their condolences.

At last, her turn came.

The eyes on her, the knowledge they were watching and waiting and she was Princess she'd have to learn to make declarations and hadn't she been much more outgoing when she was younger – it burned.

“Are you all right?” asked Breeze, who had, a few turns ago, shared the pain of finding his child's body, eaten through with infection. There had been little hope, he said, but it struck him all the same.

“I'm fine.” Her words came out snappier than she liked. She steadied herself with a deep breath – they would not hurt her, this was not going to become an issue – before beginning to speak.

“I lost my sibling, yes. I aided them in battle and was thrown aside. When I woke, this was all that was left of them.” The mask bobbed in her hands, barely given a call to attention. “I barely knew them, though. I fought with them, I would have killed them if they weren't strong enough, and I know I wouldn't have regretted it. Why should I grieve someone who would have meant nothing if it was my needle shattering them?”

She took a deep breath. It hitched in her throat, and she couldn't do more than squeak out the last words.

“They killed my mother. I know they had to, but-” The eyes on her burned. Each gaze felt like a sun pressed against her. Boiling her in her own carapace.

She stood, clutching Ghost's mask as if it were a plaything she was so selfish to keep for her own, her arms tingling with the urge to throw it to the ground. She whipped around before any of them could see the tears running down her mask. Her throat tightened, filled with the conflict boiling within her. “I can't- I have graves to dig.”

Hornet hated to flee. Yet she did.

Breeze called after her. As did the other knights. They called her Fellow Pilgrim, they called her Child, they called her Protector.

She wasn't, she wasn't, she wasn't!

She left the City of Tears so soon, she darted through Hallownest like she was avoiding anything but the bare minimum of it, she spent only a scant few days with the bug who'd cared for her so much and her own injured sibling, who had been locked away for years.

She coughed, hunched over Ghost's mask to spare it her tears. Her back hurt with the force of it, each shudder pounding against the chitin she'd kept so tense. Venom pulsed and flowed no matter how earnestly she told herself she was not being threatened.

A knight called, and she flew onwards.

Ghost had brought her grief over her mother.

Would the White Lady grieve her child in turn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter this time folks! The next one has a flashback attached to it, not splitting it up.
> 
> I'm like, 13 chapters ahead, and like... There are a number of scenes I have in mind that are gonna take a while to get to! We're making this a slow burn, apparently, except the slow burn is the plot.


	11. Keep On Running Back To Her

The mantises here fought.

Hornet, saddled with her sibling, still fended them off with little issue. She had earned the respect of the Lords, she had heard from Vespa and low discussions between her father and the White Lady when their brother broke off, drunk on the Radiance's promises. She saw no sign of the traitor lord, only his exhausted, yet aggressive, followers.

The thorns, too, proved a nuisance. Yet she had come here with the Lady many times as a child, plucked for a weekend that would have been spent at the White Palace to stay with one of the queens who raised her instead. As a small spiderling, she had not strayed far from the Lady's side, her face buried in as many flowers as she could reach. As she grew, Fierce Dryya caught her fascination and she begged the Great Knight to train her until she agreed; she remembered showing off a scar on her arm gained from a particularly ferocious sparring match, then crying when she molted and lost it. These years, she patrolled it like she did anywhere else in Hallownest. Still, it caught part of her off guard to be bigger than she had been, less able to wiggle into nooks and crannies.

Yet she had always avoided the Queen's repose. She knew the White Lady was there. She did not have to check, she felt it. There was nowhere else the Lady would go.

The corpse lying outside the doorway stopped her in her tracks. Dryya was long gone. Her carapace had dried and grown brittle, resting free of the branches that entwined everything else. Her nail rested on the ground, old blood flaking off of it. Mantis corpses piled before her, more bloodied and broken than she, but sheer numbers would do in any warrior, no matter how great.

Hornet came to stand by the face of the knight she had admired so. Another corpse left in Hallownest's wake.

She sighed, her heart sinking.

The urge to reach out and crush through Dryya's cheek gripped her shoulder. Take her mentor, the Knight she had most adored, and simply destroy her. She clutched Ghost's mask, averting her eyes. Yes, Dryya was gone. She couldn't be angry, this was the natural way of things.

Somehow, Fierce Dryya had not been strong enough for the new world.

Not that Hornet was sure she would survive long in this one, this third land. After Hallownest's glory, after the infection. The third age, thus far, asked for strength of the heart, and she had little more in her arsenal than a failing shield.

Hornet pushed down the emotional mess rising within her and stepped beyond, passing through the threshold and into what remained of the Lady's realm.

As she grew closer, a sense of calm pressed down on her, working its way deep into her being. A floral, earthy scent filled the air, welcoming her as a homecoming. The lights dimmed, the windows increasingly covered by branches, but ones that glowed with their own faint luminescence.

The figure seated before her was not quite the White Lady as Hornet remembered her.

She always had an age, some quiet wisdom, to her aura. She ruled alongside the Pale King, after all, and the centuries-old wyrm trusted her judgment for good reason. But while she still felt ancient, now she also felt elderly. Bindings wrapped her up tight – how long had it been since she moved? Blind eyes trained on nothing, all frosted over, though Hornet wasn't sure whether her attention was trained outwards at all, anyways.

Her head lifted when Hornet approached all the same. “Who is here? Not my spawn returned again, I cannot feel you.” The branches dug into the ceiling rustled; though it looked innocuous enough, Hornet knew the White Lady was far from incapable of defending herself. Gods were defensive creatures. “Make yourself known, my eyes are not what they used to be.”

“It is I, White Lady.” Hornet stopped at the foot of the queen's chair. She came up to the Lady's knee now, already more than she had seen herself growing to when she was small. She choked back any waver that threatened her voice, focusing on the Lady's ever-serene face. “I come to tell you the Ghost of Hallownest is gone, and they took the Radiance down with them. I also come to ask if you can fulfill a favor.”

The White Lady paused, then bowed her head. “The Light has dimmed. I do not feel my spawn failing, suffering. Their peace is my own.” She raised her head again, eyes wandering towards Hornet. “As for the favor, know I will extract no price from you. For your service, Gendered Child-”

“Hornet.” Speaking out of turn made her wince, but she hid it well. The White Lady had never been as fussed about such things as the Pale King was, perhaps aware her tendency to ruminate made shorter-lived bugs impatient.

“Hornet?” The White Lady sounded confused, and her head listed ever so slightly to the side for it. She could not go far, though, her crown of branches trapping her.

She sighed, trying to steady the nerves bundling in her stomach and tying themselves into knots like a Weaver's spell. “It is my name, White Lady. Queen Vespa granted it to me.”

The Lady hummed, the sound little more than a rustle that could have been the result of a breeze. Her eyes glazed over more as she thought. “Ah, the Deepnest tradition. Yes, Vespa's duty, unless she were indisposed. Forgive me, you still seem so... young. Perhaps you always will.”

The insult stung. Not old enough for her name? Too immature for the likes of one of the women who raised her? Did she even approve of the name, and did it even matter, considering how little she had known Hornet as, well, Hornet? She was glad it was Vespa instructed to take up the mantle of naming the Princess of Deepnest.

“What did you wish from me?” The White Lady's eyes almost met hers, only to gaze a little past her shoulder. How much had she found herself needing to actually look at something in the years she had disappeared, hidden away in her refuge?

A clatter sounded as Ghost's mask hit the ground. Smaller taps accompanied the pieces Hornet kept in her pocket as they followed suit. This, the White Lady seemed to notice, focusing in on it as if she were not blind at all.

“I want you to fix their mask. They deserve a proper burial, not a bunch of pieces thrown in the ground like refuse.” The anger filtered into her words. She sucked on the roof of her mouth, as if that would help draw the venom away. Yes, maybe the Lady had seen her sibling, and instructed them to go to their death, but could she blame her for it any more than she could blame Little Ghost for killing the Dreamers? It needed to happen.

It needed to happen.

Tendrils _shuff_ -ed across the ground, seeking out the pieces. Hornet helped as the White Lady piled the pieces into her lap, feeling out the fractures. A glow pulsed through her, pulling inwards from the roots extending well beyond the confines of the room.

The glow sunk into Ghost's mask, weaving through the breaks and gaping holes. It pulled pieces back to where they fit with scrapes and clicks and the groan of growing things.

Hornet stepped back as the Lady worked. Her concentration went unbroken, utterly focused on repairing what remained of her child. Minutes passed, the magic working so thoroughly around Little Ghost's mask. Would any of it be uncovered?

No. It wouldn't. The glow faded, and a tendril cradled Ghost's mask before holding it out for Hornet to take. She held it close to her face, inspecting the Lady's work, tears rising in her throat. Small tendrils and vines cabled all over, some so thin she barely saw their shadow. They filled in the gaps where Ghost's mask had cracked – from a distance, it would be impossible to tell. But close up? This was nothing like the smooth surface of her siblings' masks.

She hugged it to her stomach. It was fixed, it was dry – she had all the time in the world to plan a funeral. Which she still needed to do, on top of checking in on the bugs in the city, and in Dirtmouth, and...

“You're not coming back to the throne, are you?” She hated how hopeless, how scared she sounded.

The White Lady sighed. “My role in these proceedings, mere duty at the time, is no small matter. Unbound, torn from where I embed myself, that primal desire to breed would return, without my dear wyrm to keep it in check. My spawn shall have no further siblings.”

“What am I to do, then?” Her voice cracked. She bit down on her own chelicerae, triggering the flow of venom. It stung, sharp and prickly; she was barely immune to her own body's creation. She forced herself to stand straight, to not press the heel of her hand to her temple and fall to her knees. “I cannot be in two places at once, and Hallownest and Deepnest both need leadership. I know I will need to delegate, but everyone in the City of Tears is struggling, and I don't know if anyone from Dirtmouth, or elsewhere in Hallownest, will be able to help. And my own people disappeared, they gave up Deepnest, but-”

“Child- little Hornet, please know you are not alone. There are many around you who will lend themselves to your cause. There always were. Even if the most they can give is a shoulder to lean on, let them gift it to you. Myself, I shall always be here if you need advice.”

It was like an uoma core hitting the ground. Her anger exploded, lashing out at everything. Herself, for failing to contain her own emotions. The Radiance and the Pale King, for putting everyone in this situation in the first place. Her mother, for the debt laid on her shoulders. Hollow, for doing little more than lying on the floor. The White Lady, for- “You abandoned Hallownest just the same as my father did. You never said a thing about Dryya lying outside, long dead. Your advice, I am certain, comes from a bygone era. I will find a way, and it shall be the best damn thing I can do for Hallownest and Deepnest both.”

With nothing more to say, nothing more to ask of the White Lady, Hornet turned and stormed away.

The White Lady called after her. “She would be proud of you.”

Hornet stopped.

“You are just like her.”

With a mournful, angry shudder, Hornet drew her needle and threw it forth, catching its thread in her hand.


	12. Flashback III: These Little Things Define You Forever

_She had come to the White Palace and immediately headed to her room. The retainers followed her, fussing, but the Kingsmoulds did not care. They never cared. That was the beauty of them._

_It had not been too long since she shut herself in the bland, glaringly white prison that a retainer knocked and nervously called her to dinner. She stared at her loom; she had added nothing more than a couple straggly, uninspired threads to it. That she had a loom at all felt like a failure. The Weavers worked in the freedom of Deepnest, anchoring their threads to whatever fit their needs. Then there was her with her clumsy wefts and stupid loom. She had her mother's venom to her name, but not her spinnerets._

_Why couldn't she have been a true spider?_

_She trudged after the retainer to dinner. Usually, it was the White Lady and the Great Knights, some or all of them. Maybe a few nobles who were staying over. Sometimes Lurien joined them when he could be coaxed out of the spire, though she'd only seen him a few times. Monomon, she saw more, called in to tutor her. Hollow was there, sometimes, often if they had training right before and then they stopped by long enough to drink their fill of Soul before taking up post by the door. The Pale King usually took meals in his workshop._

_Tonight, though, on the anniversary of the Black Egg Temple's sealing, her father sat at the head of the table, beside his Lady. The Great Knights sat around them, one seat left open close to the Pale King. Hollow would have stood by the door, shadowing the royal couple. Their absence weighed far greater than anything else. Her father nodded to her and the retainer as they entered, gesturing for her to sit in the open seat._

_She slid into it, glowering at the table. To her side, Ogrim bantered with anyone who would join him – tonight, that was Isma and Hegemol, the two keeping his personality in check as they usually did. If not, Dryya was going to kill him. She had heard Dryya utter this threat many times._

_Servants brought out the night's meal, receiving many gracious thanks from the knights and a few polite ones from the Lady. The Pale King seemed just as preoccupied as his daughter._

_The others were well into her meal when she began to pick at her plate. Deep down, her stomach rumbled for it, the roast in front of her such a perfect temptation. But whenever she poked it for too long, she caught a glimpse of her father's face and her appetite vanished._

_Ogrim was in the middle of telling a joke when she stood. “I'm gonna go,” she mumbled and, unexcused, began to walk away._

_“Did I offend?” called Ogrim, genuine concern in his voice. “If so, I do apologize-”_

_She shook her head and turned the corner, disappearing past the doorway._

_She heard a muffled, “Dear, I think you need to talk to her.”_

_The words only made her walk faster, fists clenched and feet smacking down on the marble floor as she stormed back to her room. Servants ducked out of her way, some apologizing, some wondering what she was doing. It was easy enough to get to her room while ignoring them. She opened the door and slipped inside, but as she turned she spied her father approaching._

_She opened the door wider just to slam it shut and then threw herself into a chair facing very blatantly away from it._

_“Child!” It was rare the King raised his voice, and he didn't, really. He more of projected, his carefully neutral tone louder than usual but not sharper for it._

_She ignored him, huddling her knees to her chest. Homesickness ached within her, but the idea of going home sickened her as much as staying here did. She hiccuped, muted cries accompanying the hot tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Nothing was right any more._

_The door opened, quiet on well-maintained hinges. It shut with a click and she bristled, digging her hands into her knees at the sound of his voice._

_“My child, whatever- what has overcome you?” He stood beside the chair, hands clasped behind his back. He glanced at her, but for the most part kept his gaze resolutely focused on the window before them, the yawning stretch of cavern beyond. A tunnel he himself had carved, with the ashes of his old body now slowly dancing in its drafts._

_“Go away.” She pressed her face into her thighs, like she could make him disappear if she shut her eyes tight enough. “I want to go home.”_

_“The circumstances are difficult, I understand.”_

_“You took Mother from me,” she growled. Small as she was, the threat should have meant nothing to the Pale King, but it gave him pause. She continued, heart aching as she spoke. “You took her, and you took Hollow, too. And I have to sit here and pretend it's okay.”_

_“As I said, I understand-”_

_“No, you don't!” She turned away from him, breaths heaving and catching. Tears flowed freely now, cupping her face in their clinging dampness. “I bet you don't have a mother, you don't know what it's like.” With the edge of her cloak she scrubbed the tears away. “Because you're a monster.”_

_The King did not huff, did not shout or snap or growl. But there was a change in how he spoke, something she couldn't put a finger on. Was it more sad, or guarded? “I did, in fact, have a mother. She is gone, too.”_

_She clamped down on the curiosity beginning to rise, tempting her to ask about her grandmother. Herrah said little about her family, and this was the only thing she had ever heard about the Pale King's side. Besides Hollow existing, of course. It did not matter. His next words stamped out any interest she had in asking._

_“You would not be here if not for Herrah's sacrifice. What she gives, and what The Hollow Knight gives, will save Hallownest.” He reached out and, ever so lightly, touched her shoulder._

_The Pale King was not given to affection, physical or otherwise. He almost never touched her, not since she was really small, and the most she had seen him give Hollow was a tug on their cloak to straighten it out. To have him touch her was strange, serious._

_She slapped his hand away. She scrambled to the edge of the chair, its weight keeping it from tipping as she got in close to her father, now at eye level with him. Her fingers dug into the chair's arm to the point she thought the threads would pop under the force. Her voice reached a fever pitch as she spoke. “Maybe I would've been happy not being born if it meant they were here. Maybe I would've been even happier because then I wouldn't have you for a father!”_

_The words hit the Pale King like a slap. He jerked back, blinking pitch-black eyes in response to the verbal strike. It did not last long before they narrowed in anger, but he stayed drawn back, shoulder held defensively between himself and his daughter. His scrutiny burned into her, seeking out anything he could use as return fire, she bet._

_She wasn't going to give him the chance. “You never loved me. I'm some kind of Vessel, aren't I? You made me for Mother so she would go away, but I wasn't a good Vessel like Hollow. You think I'm noisy and I don't listen like Hollow does, so you hate me!” She jerked in closer, emphasizing her point. “You didn't even love Hollow, because you never listened to them! You hate them! You hate me! You hate me!”_

_He stepped back, in no small part because she had balled up her fists and brought one down on his arm. He dodged the other hits with ease, the light in his eyes flickering too fast. Clear from her range, he watched as his daughter sunk into the chair, sobbing. She clutched the front of her cloak, huddling up in it. From her watery gaze, she couldn't tell if he stared at her with cold dispassion, uncertainty on how to approach, or nothing at all._

_It had to be the first. Her father knew no love, and never had._

_She pressed her face into the back of the chair, muffling her tears. Her fingertips drew across her cloak's fabric, the dark blue woven with a story trailing along its border. It fell too short on her; Mother gave it to her last time she was awake when she molted, and Mother couldn't help her through any more molts. It wasn't the same with just Midwife, and nobody would care if she molted here, would they?_

_It was like someone had scooped out all her guts. There wasn't anything left._

_With a sigh, the Pale King leaned over the chair's arm, his trailing multitude of legs keeping him from truly kneeling, and reached out. Hesitant, he brushed a tear from his daughter's cheek. She flinched away from him, curling her own hand up where he had touched her and rubbing at the spot._

_“I don't hate you.” His words fell flat, like it was nothing more than one of his speeches._

_“Then I'll hate you,” she hissed._

_He backed off, glancing back one last time before leaving the room._

_She didn't know how long it took her to fall asleep in the chair, exhausted from the trip to the Palace and her outburst._

_She awoke later in her bed, the blanket pulled up around her shoulders. Growling, she kicked it off._


	13. You Were Never Supposed To Leave

Hollow and Midwife were nowhere to be found in Herrah's den. Hornet called for them, concern gnawing at her gut. Though, Hollow couldn't be in too much trouble if they had Midwife with them, and they were a capable warrior in their own right. When they were well and had access to plentiful Soul, anyways.

She set Little Ghost's mask down beside the altar, stroking its top with her thumb and muttering that she would be back. They couldn't have gone far, right? She had never known of Midwife leaving Deepnest, and Hollow wasn't up to wandering all the way to one of the exits, last she knew. Surely even a Vessel wouldn't heal this quickly?

She jumped and darted her way to a ledge high up where she could survey the entirety of the village. Seeing no sign of them – and little sign of anyone else, for that matter – she jumped down to begin her search.

Midwife's den was empty. Well, save for the remains of her previous meals, but that was a constant. For someone so fastidious when it came to practicing her trade, Midwife's standards dropped precipitously outside of house calls. Hornet didn't even see signs of Hollow's horns scraping against the ceiling, so she moved on.

Uncertain where else they would go, she made her way to the hot spring.

The warmth and steam enveloped her, the bright Soul infused into the water giving a gentle light to the cavern. She pushed her cloak off her shoulders, it already felt too heavy to keep around her front.

A couple Devout who had sunk into the spring spotted her first, greeting her with delighted shrieks. One raised their claws, splashing the other with the sudden movement. Hornet called back, sweeping her arms down in front of her face in the return form of the greeting. But the relief she felt took priority.

Hollow faced away from the spring's entrance, their long body taking up a significant chunk of the pool. Their head rested on the shore, cradled in the crook of their arm. Their new cloak was laid out on the ground, far enough it wouldn't get splashed. Midwife bathed near them, water flicking all over as she twisted and turned, taking up even more space than Hollow. The lone Weaver held their arms up to avoid the watery assaults coming from both sides as they washed their face.

“Hornet, dear!” Midwife called her over. She grunted when the Devout smacked into her, entranced as their princess rounded the spring to sit in front of her. She pushed the smaller bugs away, grumbling to them about manners as they apologized.

She tilted her head and her mask seemed to really beam at Hornet. “It's wonderful to see you again. Your sibling isn't much of a conversationalist, which makes them vexing to host. I think they're all right, but I haven't seen them move in some time now...”

The concern punched its way back until Hornet turned to Hollow, leaning in close to their face. After a few seconds she pulled away and announced, “They're sleeping, Midwife.”

“They do like doing that, don't they?” Midwife's head bobbed. “Anyways, they've been walking around here and there, so I thought I would bring them here for a bath. I believe the strange smell – or how everything suddenly did not smell – is because of them.”

Hornet wanted to ask Midwife not to say that of them in public, especially with them right beside her, but she was right, wasn't she? Besides, Hollow had been locked up for years, and filled with infection for part of it. They weren't going to be some royal bastion of cleanliness.

With a sigh, she unclasped her cloak and went to go empty her pockets, setting the items beside Hollow's new cloak. The pin from their old cloak gleamed from the collar, scrubbed clean and shiny. “How were they at sewing?”

“Oh, yes. There wasn't much else to do, so we've been working on it. There are some hems that need to be done, and we have been working hard on good stitching, but it's intact. I don't know when they went and found that old pin, but they cleaned it up nicely.”

With the items removed from her cloak, Hornet found a spot on the bank to get to cleaning it. She didn't have any soap on hand, but she could give it a more thorough washing later. The Weaver paused in their own cleansing, watching her handle the material as if the Princess of Deepnest would not know how to wash her own clothes. The Devout watched, too, though one seemed mesmerized by the repetitive motion and the other looked ready to burst with an offer to help, but her solid claws prevented such things.

Besides, there was no better way to upset a Weaver than to give their work to an “indelicate caste,” and she did not know whether the lone one was lax enough to let it slide or not. Stuck between the options of not offering such a chance right in front of said Weaver and coming off as condescending as she passed off her chore to someone else, Hornet's independence demanded she wash her own cloak and find a different way to break the barrier down. She still had her baby things to distribute, anyways, and at this rate there wouldn't be much in the way of Weaverlings to give her things to.

Deepnest still felt strange. There were always plentiful Weavers, always working on something or another. She had never been the focus of the Devout' attention before, not unless she had run off on her own and one of them found her and had to herd her back to the village. Her mother's presence had always shielded her, giving her freedom to stay back and watch.

She shook her head. She didn't want to dwell on it, not now. Instead, she draped her cloak over a nearby rock and returned to Midwife.

“I don't know how long I'll be able to stay this time, I found people in the City of Tears and-” She shrieked as a hand clutched her and lifted her up, up. Her stomach dropped in a way it never did when she was in charge of her ascent and she squirmed against her captor.

Hollow gently tossed her into the middle of the spring.

She surfaced and sputtered, catching her breath. The Devout were at her side in an instant and she waved them off, still coughing. Midwife laughed, making the Weaver titter along with her.

“It's fine. They're my sibling. Leave them alone. _Hollow!”_

She had never seen her sibling act smug before, but they turned on their side to peer down at her and the way they held their head screamed with such an aura.

One of the Devout chuckled. “Ah, siblings. Pick your battles wisely there!”

Hornet nodded and slipped under the water to surface again by her sibling's face. Yes, that was a smug look. On one hand, she was proud of them for feeling safe enough to express themself. On the other, she was going to kill them.

“You weren't sleeping at all, were you?”

They nosed the ground, not quite looking for forgiveness but doing a good job feigning it.

“You were lying in wait.”

They watched her.

“I cannot believe you.” She sat beside them with a huff. They reached up and scrubbed a smudge of dirt off her horn. She let them; how long had it been since they had decent contact? “Fine. I forgive you for this incident.”

That seemed to satisfy them. They covered their eyes, perhaps to actually go to sleep this time.

Hornet scooted closer to them. They were permissive, and she had given them sheets and sized their cloak, but there had always been something to do, some sort of stress while she worked with them near their wounds. But now their bandages had been pulled away, with everything out in the open, and she wanted to make sure they were okay.

Even with the wounds healing, Soul glowing along the cracks and crevices as Hollow rested, the extent of the damage... it scared her. Pits from the infection's cyst bubbled their shell; it had healed glassy and smooth, like obsidian, curving into sharp points, all caved in where they had run their own blade through their chest. Their arm was in no better shape. She doubted they could move the small stump that remained; it didn't even have any shell left on it, only the softer, more flexible covering that ran along joints, and it looked more like a pocket of flesh (or Void, she supposed) than anything resembling a limb. Scarring puckered its end, where it had been torn or rotted away instead of cleanly amputated.

She sunk into the water, letting the heat lap over her. She could worry about whether they would have to do something about the stump or what the city's residents and such were up to later.

Cautiously, the Devout began to approach again, held back by Midwife as she moved about and Hollow's limbs, an effective barrier when they were curled in.

One bowed to Hornet. “My Princess, I hate to impose, but we remember nothing about recent events. Would you- would you enlighten us?”

The other eyed Hollow, no violence in his posture but caution, for sure.

The Weaver perked up as Hornet stood, splashing her way closer to the group. Even Midwife paused in her bathing, curled in to scrub at her unmasked face as she watched Hornet.

Hornet vaulted over Hollow's knees, swimming around Midwife to sit beyond the larger bugs, near the Weaver on the shore, where all who had not been involved could circle around her to listen. She wished she had not left her needle beside her cloak so she could clean it, give her hands something to do. She settled for washing her hands, distracting herself from the unease of being the center of attention.

“I admit to not knowing your names. Let us get introductions out of the way first. Beyond being Princess, I am Hornet. Please address me as such. There are too few of us left for titles to mean much.”

The others nodded, and one by one eyes turned to the Weaver.

“I- oh.” They squirmed under the others' gaze. Nervousness rose in their eyes, accompanied by them pulling their limbs in. “I am Weft.”

If Hornet had been told to guess the Weaver's name, that would have been her first assumption. Warp and Weft were by and far the most common Weaver names; she had once heard a joke that if you called one out in the village, half the heads would turn your way, and if you called the other, you would get the other half.

The attention now turned to the Devout.

“I am Rayah,” said one. She gestured to her fellow. “And this is Leed. He's not much for words.”

Now that she had a chance to give the two a closer look, she could see why. The scars of infection marked both of them, but on Leed, the majority of his face became a mass of webbed scar tissue that stretched down his throat. Only two of his eyes remained, the upper and middle left ones, leaving him entirely blind on the right. He often glanced that way, and Rayah kept to that side.

Before the silence could stretch on too long, Midwife interrupted it with a laugh. “You know me well enough. 'Midwife' will do, don't get your hopes up. The last person who said my name was my wife and I want to keep it that way.”

With everyone else introduced, the attention fell cautiously to Hollow. They slept, perhaps for real this time, still as a rock. Midwife looked back to Hornet after a cursory glance; she had spent plenty of time with the Vessel already. As for the other three, they were still a curiosity, even though they had shared a hot spring with them.

“Is that the King's Shadow?” Weft asked, shuffling to get a better look. The Devout turned their attention to them, sensing the story building in the Weaver as sure as Hornet did. “My parent worked in the Beast's Den when- when you hatched, I suppose, Princess- Hornet. I was only a child, but I remember them coming home and telling my siblings and I about the King's Shadow. How they surpassed any civilized bug they'd seen in height, and about their silence and poise and how absolutely cold they were.” They looked to Hornet, and so did the Devout. “All you said was that they had been imprisoned and badly wounded, but I suspected. Is it so?”

She sighed. Another title, somehow both grand and... dismissive, almost. Reducing them down to who they were to the Pale King. She had not heard it in years, she had forgotten about it. “Yes. Hollow is The Hollow Knight. They were imprisoned up above, in the Black Egg Temple, but with the infection gone, there is no purpose to keeping them there. I brought them to Deepnest to recuperate from their wounds, since I knew they would fit in the village. Their entire life has been focused on the infection, they are a victim as much as anyone. All I ask is for them to be treated as you would treat any other bug if you see them about.”

With introductions out of the way – she could tell Hollow who everyone was when they awoke – she started on the long, long story of what had happened since the infection broke loose. The fall of Hallownest, Vespa's death, watching Deepnest depopulate as the Weavers fled. She hesitated when she got to Ghost's appearance, but she told the story as thoroughly and factually as she could. Their fights. Ghost claiming the King's Brand. The necessity of killing the Dreamers, unlocking the Black Egg Temple. How they destroyed the Kingsoul, the glimmering black charm they had shown her, as consumingly dark as they or Hollow were. Assisting them in their fight against Hollow and the Radiance, her needle puncturing the crack in her sibling's head and her silk binding them. Their death. Hollow's freedom.

The silence stretched on; even Midwife had not known the full story, spending her time hidden in her den.

“The Little Ghost killed Herrah?” Rayah asked at last, all the exuberance drained from her voice. She and Leed stared at Hornet, eyes wide.

Hornet thought about it, nodded. “They did. But my mother was never going to wake as it was. They freed her.” The words rang false, tasting heavy in her mouth, but she could not let Little Ghost become a villain. She could not give into the idea that there was some way her mother could have woken up.

If there was, it was pointless now.

They stayed until Hollow woke. Hornet coaxed them from the spring; they stumbled and shuddered as they stood, still uncertain on their own feet. With her and Midwife's support they drew to their full height, flicking water off.

The sight enraptured the others. Even if they had seen Hollow earlier, they often had to hunch or crawl to navigate Deepnest, and had been lying down in the spring. Really, they struggled in most spaces, but here they stood with as much of a regal posture as they could manage. Rayah, Leed, and Weft didn't quite stand as tall as the middle of their thigh. As long as Hornet had known them, they stood above even the Great Knights. Only Monomon, the White Lady, and perhaps Herrah if she reared up on only her back legs matched or exceeded their height. Maybe that beast that pretended to be a cave, too, Hornet had stabbed him once.

They reluctantly knelt to pick up their cloak. They slung it over their shoulders and tried to shake it out into its proper drape, but they struggled to figure out how to do the task single-handedly. Hornet put on her own cloak while keeping an eye on them, let them take the time to try it on their own.

“Here. Let me,” she said, and Hollow instantly stilled, turning to her with their crooked cloak, one side weighed down by the heavy pin, as mechanically as a kingsmould would have moved. Her guts knotted at the idea they took it as an order. There had to be another way to go about this.

Still, she tugged their cloak until it rested evenly on their shoulders, and pinned it together. Hallownest's sigil shone at her, as pale and cold as anything the King made. She did her best not to frown at it.

She said her goodbyes and accompanied them home.


	14. A New Hope Glistens Off The Streets

Lillien could see the entire city from the Watcher's observatory. Before the infection, she had tried to fly up as high as she could before her wings tired and she had to perch. No matter how high she flew, or how strong she got, she never saw as much as this. Buildings upon buildings, stretched out as far as she could see. The occasional dip of a marketplace, or spike of a tower. All quiet. Or, mostly so. A few survivors darted about – she would call out their locations and some of her sisters-in-arms would fly out to meet them. At times, they returned with a new member of the community, slowly growing within the spire. At times, they returned from a fight.

As far as she was concerned, it was the perfect position. She missed the skies, but her breaths came uneasily now, and aches squeezed her entire torso. Her legs were spottily numb and weakened, she couldn't even use them to steer herself right when she flew. So she watched the city. It had been only a week since Hornet first found them, but the sentries threw themselves into this new royal decree. They would not tolerate dissent. Not when there was a new order be put together.

She chirped when something touched the back of her head. Mikei nuzzled her, arcing himself around her wings.

Slowly but surely, his scent filtered through the air. She turned and shoved him away. “Mikei! You reek!”

He chortled, giving her a nervous smile. She knew he had been on duty in the waterways, getting as much as possible back to functioning, but this was worse than the usual musty dampness. He smelled like refuse, detritus, and unabashedly like crap. “We, ah, found another survivor! He's a dung beetle. Very nice. But I don't think the whole 'heroic odor' thing fits well on others.”

“It does not! Go wash up before I personally throw you back in the waterways.” Her entire body ached at the idea, but she made a face at him as he scurried off, the 'heroic odor' lingering in his wake. He could be so nasty. She sighed, turning back to the telescope. She loved him.

Hold on a moment.

Dung beetle?

Heroic odor?

She pushed herself out of the chair, wingbeats catching her before she could hit the ground. She bumped her hip against the telescope as she lifted up and zoomed for the door.

She burst in to the washroom as Mikei was drawing up some water. He shrieked as she barreled into him, malodorousness forgotten. They tumbled over each other, bucket sloshing and soaking them both.

“You met _Ogrim?_ The Great Knight Ogrim? Loyal Ogrim? He's _alive?”_

“I- I guess so? I can't exactly confirm-”

“You're so cool,” she said with a laugh. She leaned in to kiss him, then thought better of it. That could wait until after they got clean.

The two found washcloths and got to work. Mikei was first, being the worse of the two. Lillien used a little more than the allotted amount of soap on him, but that was all right. He needed it and she would live with using a little less this time.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked as he helped her wash her sides and back. She really did ache a lot, and the effort of flying and running into him hadn't helped. She winced, though he was gentle with her.

“I... I've been worse, I guess.” Her thoughts turned to mere hours after Hornet had left them to inhabit the spire, the searing, pulsing pain she had found herself in.

Now he did kiss her, lightly, on her forehead. He'd helped her through the entire ordeal, leftover from the infection, even hunted down someone who had dabbled in Soul magic to ensure she healed.

She leaned in to him, arms curled tight over her abdomen. “We could have been...”

His cheek bumped her temple. “I know.”

“I don't know if I can...”

“We'll always find a way, right? If we want?” He kissed her again. “Here, want me to help you back to the telescope? I did so rudely interrupt you.”

She smiled slightly, wrapping her arms around his neck as he lifted her up. “I'll accept the trade-off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit on the lighter side for these two chapters. Hornet could probably use it, after everything with White Lady and Little Ghost's mask and all that! Get some enforced splashing around in the hot springs, we can check in on the City folks...


	15. I Gotta Contain My Overactive Mind

Hollow was having a nightmare.

Hornet had just returned from the City of Tears. Exhaustion weighed her down, making her eyes blur and her steps feel like she had weights tied to her ankles. Lillien had offered to let her stay at the spire but no. She had places to be. Ghost's helm still stared out from the plinth, watching. Judging.

But, more immediately, Hollow kicked at imaginary enemies. Webbing tangled around their foot. Their chest heaved with effort. They groped around for a nail they did not have.

All of a sudden they clutched the stump of their arm and threw their head back, arching upwards. It was as if the opposite of a scream reverberated through the den, the conspicuous absence of sound muffling even Deepnest's natural background noises.

Hornet stowed her needle and ran to them, almost catching herself and tripping in her exhaustion. She gripped Hollow's shoulders and held on tight as they thrashed, trying to will herself to speak. Hollow was never this mobile. Never this free with themself. Never this obvious about anything they felt, even when they had been dying.

“Hollow!” Her voice fell flat, too shaky to have the right effect.

They flipped her into the side of the plinth, hard enough to force the air from her lungs. Her back struck its edge and seared with pain, burning down around her thorax.

She gasped, and shrieked. _“Hollow!”_

The high pitch didn't get through to them. She grabbed their arm and shook it, their name tripping over her chelicerae as she begged them to wake up. At one point she wrenched their arm so hard she was afraid she'd hurt them from the way they twisted away from her.

It was likely only a minute or two where she could not wake them. It felt like years.

At last their movements slowed to shudders and their head lifted. Their eyes were as empty as always but she swore she saw an awareness in them. Perhaps even a fear.

They scrambled onto their side, staring at her, shaking.

“I'm okay,” she hissed, pushing herself up onto her knees. Gods, her back hurt. But, reaching back, she didn't feel any blood, and everything felt like it was in working order. Just painful. “What about you?”

She pulled herself over to their head, sitting crosslegged by their face. They still panted, cold air flowing from them in short puffs.

When she came to her mother with bad dreams, Herrah always pulled her into the crook of her arm and stroked the spot between her horns, letting her baby curl up against her shoulder. By day, she told her daughter to confront her fears, to find their weaknesses and make them nothing but an annoyance at worst. By night, she sung lullabies passed down for generations and served as a stalwart bastion against the shadowed corners of the imagination.

She physically could not hold Hollow like Herrah used to hold her. But she placed her hand between their horns and worked the tension away. Her voice was not as deep, not as rich as her mother's, but she sang to them of soft shadows and welcoming webs. They were no spider, not even half-spider, they had not grown up with Deepnest not as some unthinkable nightmare, but a home. Yet it was what she knew, and it was what she sang. Perhaps it would remind them of the Abyss' darkness, if that brought them comfort.

The last song faded. She glanced up, towards the door. She had her own room she slept in most nights. It wasn't big enough for Hollow at all, and trying to make them fit somewhere even more claustrophobic sounded like a terrible idea. But she needed to sleep, and with Hollow clutching her arm, she knew they wouldn't be able to sleep alone tonight.

Even when she stood, they looked up at her mournfully, holding onto her until she stepped too far away. “I'll be back soon,” she promised, trudging onwards.

Her room wasn't really meant to hold her for much longer. It had sufficed when she was a child, but now it felt cramped, with everything a little too small. Her room at the White Palace had been bigger, better set up for her to grow into it.

She unclasped her cloak, thumbing the six-eyed pin she always used. Setting it neatly into the holder she had made for it years ago, an early sewing project, she opened her wardrobe.

Cloaks of all sizes stared back at her. Herrah never had the heart to get rid of the smallest ones, the ones she first gave her child to serve as some form of protection against nicks and scratches. They started as a riot of colors, the palette narrowing as Hornet began figuring out what she did and did not like.

She set her current cloak down on the bottom of the wardrobe, certain she would pick it up again in the morning. She ran her fingers along the edges of the other cloaks, the ones hanging, waiting to finally get some use.

Though she stopped at one her size, the same deep blue the old sire loved, her eyes continued along the line.

Herrah planned. She always did. Incrementally larger cloaks waited at the end of the line, ones beyond what Hornet could reasonably wear now. All were red, with the same shape as the one she always wore, though with slight variations in design. Different edgings, designs woven into them, things like that. The line stopped when Hornet would be three-quarters of Hollow's size to fit in it.

She knew that, if she looked on any given one's inside, she would find something embroidered on one of the pockets. An affirmation. An old saying. Anything but an apology.

She stared at them. She took the blue cloak, threw it on, closed the wardrobe, walked away.

Hollow was sitting up, a sheet slung over their shoulders. Under it she saw their hand moving, fingering the stump, the wasteland of their thorax. Their eyes focused on nothing, staring into the wall. Instead they dedicated everything to what the Radiance had done to them.

She pulled a sheet from the cabinet and dragged it towards Hollow. She slowed, stopped, watched their hand move.

“Does it hurt?” she asked them.

Their head inclined ever so slightly. She wasn't sure whether to read it as acknowledgment she spoke or an answer.

“I can stay here with you tonight, if you'd like.”

Achingly slow, they lowered their arm, using it as support as they laid down, flat on their stomach. Hornet set her sheet down and wriggled in next to them, until she felt the shape of their thorax and abdomen behind her back.

She peered over her shoulder. They still stared out at the wall, without even a sheet covering their eyes. She turned over and scooted up, until she could wrap one arm around their head and scratch at the spot between their horns with the other.

They hugged her like one would grasp an anchor in a windstorm.

As their breathing steadied, the last of her consciousness faded.


	16. Come With Me Boy, I Want To Show You Something More

Everything ached when she awoke. Hollow must have thrown her into the plinth harder than she thought, but she wasn't going to tell them that. They already felt bad enough last night, she wasn't going to add some aches and pains on to their list of troubles.

Her stomach chose now to ache in its own way, reminding her that she had journeyed all the way from the City to here and been thrown around since the last time she ate. It also knew there should still be some preserved meat left in the kitchen, and she was pretty sure she saw a jar of honey stashed up where only her mother could have reached it without clambering on everything. She did not know what could be done to make these combine in a pleasant manner, but finding a way didn't sound too bad right now, provided she was fast about it.

She disentangled herself from Hollow's grasp. They stirred, but did not wake, not as far as she could tell.

She made the journey out of the room and to the kitchen as quietly as possible. At times she swore she heard something skittering about and looked up to see if she could find a familiar face, only to find disappointment.

Once there, in the too-quiet kitchen, she found some of the meat she had preserved. There was less than she swore she had saved; how often did Midwife visit? Did Hollow need to eat beyond consuming Soul, even if it was a rare occurrence? Worse, were there some sort of pests skulking about? The skittering she had heard now made her carapace itch.

Climbing on the counters was not an approved activity in any of the homes Hornet had resided in throughout her life. Even now, in this empty ghost of a den, hauling herself up and scaling a few shelves to reach the jar of honey thrilled her in that way forbidden things did. Most of it was crystallized, but that was no reason to think it useless. Vepsa taught her to rule, and taught her how to fight, but she was not the only person in the Hive. Hornet knew there were lessons to be found everywhere and the bees were often happy to talk about their passions and work. That those working with the honey thought she listened to them for a snack and would give her crystals to suck on after they explained what exactly to do about the crystals when you didn't want them was a nice bonus.

A small slip of silk pulled up along with the jar. She paused and experimentally tugged at the jar. It stuck to her hand, but the silk was more willing to give. Hornet retreated to set the jar down safe on the countertop and reached up again to retrieve the scrap of silk. The shelves she leaned on creaked, and the jolt of fear reminded her why she was forbidden from climbing on them. She ripped the silk free and sat down on the more stable counter, shutting the cabinet above.

The scrap was old, covered in honey (mostly dried, but still enough to keep it uncomfortably sticky), and on it was Herrah's handwriting.

_If you are not me, and I have not yet laid, then think again before taking this jar, or you will learn the painful way why I am called Beast._

Six slashes encased in an oval made for a quick and dirty version of Herrah's seal. Hornet wanted to laugh, and indeed managed a giggle at the warning, apparently so dire a threat that nobody had touched the jar for years after she hatched.

Some day, some historian would find this, or she would give it up to them, and they would delight in their new, quirky information, and how they could be the source of it to all their history-minded friends. Something that detailed how Herrah the Beast was a real person, someone beyond her list of accomplishments! Wasn't this fun?

Hornet's smile fell.

She kept the note beside her as she ate – the sweet and salty, savory combination was weirdly delicious and she was not sure she liked how much she enjoyed it – feeling over the letters from time to time as if on a certain number of touches her mother's phantom would burst in, scattering other phantoms already in the kitchen on her way to sate a hunger Midwife had sometimes talked about in the abstract, but never really detailed.

She imagined the phantom pausing, reared up so she was more imposing than usual (albeit unintentionally), a spoonful of honey already in her mouth, and turning to Hornet sitting there on the counter. _“How many times will I have to tell you not to do that?”_ she asked, her words thick and gloppy as she formed them around the honey, before patting her between the horns. _“You seem worth all this trouble for, though. Say, you seem old enough, what's your name?”_

Hornet finished her meal, washed up, and walked back to the chambers still warm with daydreaming about telling her mother her name.

Hollow had woken at some point; they lifted their head when she entered, eyeing her as she got close.

“Are you hungry?” she asked them, stopping a short ways from them.

They stared.

She glanced around – the room felt claustrophobic for no good reason, and the ache from the impact flared up again. “Do you want to go for a walk? We can try leaving Deepnest if you feel up to it. Certainly you need more range than the distance from here to the hot spring.”

They stood, unfolding like an old document left crumpled up for too long. Yes, staying in one place wasn't doing them any good. She needed to get them moving. There was only so much healing they could do lying flat. They lurched towards the exit, only for Hornet to rush forwards and cut them off.

“We do not have to go far if you don't want to. You do want to go take a walk, right?”

They inclined their head. Okay. That was likely as much of an answer as she was getting. Their nightmare seemed to have scared away their ability to emote.

“I do need to get my other cloak before we can go. This one has nothing in it.”

They followed her, sticking their head in the door to look around her room while she switched cloaks. There wasn't much to it, but she still saw their eyes linger a little longer than usual on a few trinkets from her childhood. Like one of her looms.

“Yes,” she said, hoping she was actually answering an unspoken question. “I know how to weave, in technicality. I'm not very good at it.”

When she turned, pinning her cloak together, she realized they were not there.

How did someone so big wander off without a sound? She had no idea. She suspected Void, but Little Ghost was very capable of making a ruckus wherever they went.

She rushed off to find them.

They had not gone far, now standing in the middle of a room Hornet had not often been in. Nor had anyone save her mother, often blocked off for the queen to do her own bidding.

Herrah's craft room smelled of dust and looked like nobody had touched it since she began to Dream. Webs and spools of silk lined the walls, higher than even Herrah could reach without assistance of things like the pulley system built into the ceiling.

Hollow opened drawers and looked in things, but remained careful not to disturb anything already laid out. They glanced down at her when she tugged at their cloak before continuing their slow, mysterious search.

“Hollow,” Hornet said, both proud her sibling was showing an interest in something and frustrated they did so now, when she wanted to get them out of the den. “Let's – what are you even looking for?”

They opened a few of the larger cabinets, apparently not finding anything to their satisfaction. Few times had Hornet been frustrated at how incapable her siblings were of complex communication, but this proved to be one of them.

“I do wish you could sign, or write, or something, I am sure it would save you frustration to be able to...” She trailed off her mutterings as Hollow opened a cabinet and seemingly completed their task, giving the contents an almost quizzical look. She couldn't see with the cabinet door in her way, so she moved around them to get another look.

Inside was an unwoven cloak. Not in that it was deconstructed, but it was never finished. A bottle of red dye sat at the bottom of the cabinet; Hornet did not have much experience in dyeing but she knows deep in her soul that it would produce the same red of the cloak she currently wore.

The thing about this cloak, though, was that even though it only came down past the shoulders before nothing more than straggling strands faded down from it, the proportions were obvious. This thing was sized so it would fit Hollow upon completion.

Looking between them and the cloak, she realized the proportions were exact. Well, would be if they were not missing an arm and half their thorax wasn't wrecked. She could have sized the cloak she made them off of this one if it were complete.

“Was this for you?” she asked.

The way they looked at her – the fact they looked to her at all – confirmed the answer that brewed within her, unvoiced. The only question now was how Herrah managed to wrest Hollow away from the Pale King long enough to take their measurements. Or how much bullying it took for the King's tailors (it could not have been much, only Aibellin stood up to any sort of nonsense from what she had seen) to give up their measurement sheets for her to copy down.

Had Mother really looked at Hollow and thought Hornet would grow that tall? She couldn't imagine being that tall, she hadn't molted in ages. Granted, there was a dying kingdom to deal with and every home she had falling apart around her. Maybe she didn't have any growing left to do, but she couldn't imagine being closer to the Pale King's height than her own mother and sibling's. The idea unsettled her guts.

“Shall we continue?” she asked Hollow.

They shut the door and the two walked, as close to side-by-side as they could get, out of the room and then the den.

Getting them up to the stag station was still a struggle. Hollow was tall enough to reach right from one platform to another, but they couldn't pull up onto it with only one arm and limbs that seemed to have forgotten how to work with their owner after so long under someone else.

At one point, Hornet told them to stop so she could try something. She tied her silk around their waist, knotting it as securely as she could. It would be a pain to undo, but that was the price of the matter, and so be it.

“I'm going to jump to that platform, jump off it, and hopefully pull you up. Ready?”

They didn't do anything to indicate they weren't.

With a throw of her needle Hornet landed on a platform well above Hollow. Checking on them once again, they didn't seem disturbed by the proceedings, as good a sign as any. She crept to the edge of the platform, staring down at the chasm's dizzying depths. She could always rescue herself if need be. She could do this.

With a deep breath, she jumped.

Hollow's weight almost yanked her arms from her sockets and she yelped, her carapace stinging as she slid down her end of the silk. She should have tied it to herself, too, what a miserable oversight. It was going to break, and she was going to fall without any way to catch herself. She'd crunch against the bottom and-

Her descent stopped with another painful jerk. Then, as she winced, she realized she was ascending in slow, staccato motions.

Hollow stood on the platform, tugging the line up. It fell a little every time they let go of it to grab it closer and closer to her, but their reach more than made up for it.

It was still a while before she could clamber up onto the platform herself, heaving a heavy breath at her shoulders' protests. She really should have thought better about that one.

“All right,” she said, rubbing the softer space between her thorax and arm. “Let's keep going, shall we?”

Once they reached the stag station, it got exponentially easier. Hollow could keep their hand against the wall if they felt too unsteady on their feet, and even if Hornet got a bit ahead their long strides ensured they never fell too far behind.

Hollow took the walk well, and when the corner they had turned opened up into another station, they followed along without any sign of complaint. Or they weren't in a state to show their distress until they were on the verge of collapse. She recalled watching them train when she was small, on one of her early visits to the Palace. They had just come back from some mission or another with Isma and went straight to sparring with Dryya; the Great Knight managed to get them to the point Void leaked from their wounds, forming globs in the air, before they turned it around at the last moment and the Pale King called the fight. She remembered begging him to stop it earlier to let Hollow rest, but she did not quite recall the King's response.

They emerged from the tunnels and Hornet hopped up onto the loading ledge to read the sign. She didn't need to, not upon seeing the overgrown filigree and other details. There were only a couple large stations like this, only two that had been so immaculately decorated.

The Queen's Station.

Hollow scanned their surroundings with the absolute neutrality she had known for so long.

“Hollow,” she said, running her finger over the old text declaring the station's name, “Would you like to visit her? The White Lady?”

They looked at her. For once, she read nothing at all from them. The only thing they did was try to close their fingers over the hilt of a nail they didn't have.

Her shoulders sunk. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. She wasn't going to drag them along to see the White Lady if they didn't want to, and she had to admit she was not too interested in visiting her at the moment, either. “Then we shall continue on into the Fog Canyon. If you do wish to see her, go on. I will accompany you.”

They kept to her side as she walked.

The Fog Canyon's creatures were no trouble. Gently move them aside, and nothing terrible happened. Few remained now, the scorchmarks of those who had fallen marring the landscape. Those that did remain, though, had a knack for being in annoying locations. Like narrow yet unavoidable gaps.

Hornet continued shooing an uoma along while Hollow squeezed through one of these gaps. This one's core was so dull she figured she could braid its tendrils without issue, but better safe than sorry with these things. You never knew when an accident you thought minor turned deadly later on.

“Oh!” a voice called. “Oh, how long has it _been?_ What happened that you've dulled so?”

She startled, looking around for the source, and saw none. Whoever it was sounded overly familiar with her, but she didn't know the rasping voice at all. They sounded like spent every moment from birth sitting with their face over a campfire, yet they projected with the same boom the Pale King could summon if he so chose.

She turned.

Her needle sunk into the bug standing behind her. He'd begun a bow, only for her blade to cut into his arm and graze his shoulder. A poor shot, she would have to-

He hummed, nudged the blade to the side, and with a red glow the wounds began to knit together. “Ah. Perhaps a more thoughtful introduction would have gone better. A rarity, isn't it, for the master to leave his troupe? I believe you will find the tale most engaging, though-”

“Who are you, and why did you act like you knew me?” Now her needle pointed at his forehead, though it did not seem to faze him. What could be going on here? Another higher being? Hallownest had plenty of them at the moment, thank you. A strange magician, or a thief like the Soul Master and his students? He did not seem to use Soul, though.

The bug straightened up just in time for Hollow to get through and loom behind Hornet. Soul hummed in the air, called upon but not yet used to strike. Yet.

“How rude of me. I apologize, I believe I mistook you for someone else.” He chortled. “As happens when you focus on the aura above the visual. As for myself, I am Grimm. Master of the Troupe, we're staying in Dirtmouth for the time being. Well, right outside town.”

She hadn't noticed any tents or anything last time she was there. Granted, she had been in a panicked rush.

Her needle didn't move from him. “Who did you think I was?”

He shrugged. There was something strange about this bug. The Vessels were strange in their own way, unsettling until you got used to them, and Grimm gave off a similar feeling. An unnatural heat, not so much a campfire warmth there, more like a house on fire. The way his cloak and arms moved together, too, as if they were one unit, though they did not appear to be merged. “An old friend. Acquaintance. I believe he would find 'friend' far too generous a descriptor. It has been some time, I cannot help but wonder what the old wyrm has gotten into. You might recognize him. Blindingly white, head like a kitchen utensil-”

“You thought I was my father?” Internally, she screamed the words. Externally, it sounded more like nothing than what it was: a question. A basic, yes or no question.

Whatever quip this bug had prepared, it died on his tongue. He stared at her, looking her up and down, his face the picture of absolute befuddlement. All the suave he maintained (even in the Fog Canyon, she couldn't imagine what he was like among his own troupe) fell away. He reached out to touch her face, gave her and Hollow another look, and thought the better of it.

“I certainly cannot deny you but- the Pale King, mister 'I shall have no successor,' mister 'how can you stand raising a child,' has a _daughter?”_

Hollow cocked their head.

Hornet nodded. “I am one of many. The Vessels-” She gestured to Hollow. “-Are my half-siblings on his side.”

Grimm stepped up to Hollow, hand on his chin, eyes narrowed as he scrutinized them. They stood stock-still and back straight, ready for inspection at a moment's notice. “Yes, the resemblance is just as strong. Though is that the White Lady's face I see in yours?” He backed off, amusement sparkling in his eye. What a discovery to make. “I don't suppose I could ask you about another sibling of yours, then-”

“If you want Little Ghost, they are gone. They destroyed the Radiance and thus the infection once and for all.”

“Oh.” Grimm hummed, then spat curses under his breath, flame igniting behind the hand he had in front of his mouth. Then something about a ritual, and how this explained so much, and how life had become far, far more complicated all of a sudden.

He held out a hand to the two. No humor remained in his expression, even his bow to them was dead-set, and his voice was all the same. “If I may ask your company, we have a lot to discuss.”

Hornet's needle did not falter. “Do not expect me to bow to the whims of-”

_“Nyah!”_

Something small, black, and white shot around a corner. It charged directly for Hollow, whipping between their horns - even as they backed up - and through the gap in the rock. Their confused mewl echoed through the cavern, then they flew back and proceeded to wind around Hollow's horns, chirping and rubbing their face all over the Vessel.

Grimm sighed heavily, and it was as if he had aged decades in front of them. He held his arms out, approaching Hollow (who could have replaced the statue in the City of Tears the way they froze up) and clucking. “My child, no. Come here. Yes, I see you made a friend, but I think they need a little space. Ask first before you play.”

The child spat a fireball, nothing more than a few huffy embers.

“Ah!” Grimm apologized profusely as he reached up and plucked the squirming, squeaking child from Hollow's head. With a grumble he tucked them up in his cloak, sad 'nyah's emanating from below his collar. “As I was saying, we need to talk. There's always more than meets the eye when you meddle in the affairs of gods.”

Hornet, heart pounding from the sudden intrusion and the potential threat this bug posed, narrowed her eyes. “What would you know about such things?” She had her suspicions, but...

Grimm nodded at her. “If what you say is true, then Ghost dealt my own sister a grievous blow.”

Her blood turned to ice.

Grimm began walking towards the crossroads, slowly so they could make up their minds without losing him. “Don't think me her ally. I won't bring harm to you, but I am serious when I say you need my consult.”

Hornet glanced at Hollow. They stared at the bug – the god? Yet they made no move. Of course not. She had to go first.

She didn't like this, but it was a risk she had to take. If the infection returned again, there would be no chance for Hallownest, no chance for Deepnest. She could not put Hollow up to the test again, and even if she had known how to use the strange weapon Ghost wielded to access minds, she was not Void, she was not the poison to the Radiance that her siblings were.

So she followed. And Hollow followed her.

When she saw the scorch marks lining the canyon walls and heard Grimm cooing at his child, asking them if they had fun playing with the oomas and uomas, she elected to stay safely out of the potential blast radius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iiiiiiit's Griiiiiiimm!
> 
> We're starting to encroach on the end of my buffer, I think. I might have some longer chapters that get split into single bits, and another flashback in here. Looks like it'll be another two-chapter update, then one and a flashback. Not sure about after that. (The chapter I'm currently on is getting real long.)
> 
> Anyways! Grimm has some fun information for the siblings, does he not?


	17. By the Brighter Light

A heavyset bug, his collar furred and face covered in a mask reminiscent of Grimm's own face, glanced over his shoulder at the group wandering in to the troupe's makeshift kitchen and poured more water into the kettle he held.

“Mrrm... no luck?”

Grimm shook his head, gesturing for Hornet and Hollow to take a seat around the table. The child peeped out of his cloak as he moved, mewing at the pair like they asked, 'Save me!'

“Most unfortunate news. We've-” He glanced down at the child, holding his arm up so they and his face were obscured. “Are you ready to play nicely? Yes? All right, go on.”

He released the child and they flew over to the table with a victorious chirp. They plopped down to watch Hollow and Hornet, the latter easing the former down. Their legs shook after so the journey, much longer than either had planned for it to be. As stoic as they tried to be, their pain was clear.

Their hips hit the ground with a thump and a wince, drawing the troupe bugs' attention for a brief moment. Grimm continued relaying his discoveries to the other bug, whose astonishment only grew; he often leaned past Grimm to peek at the siblings. As for said siblings, Hornet double checked that Hollow wasn't twisted in any awkward nor painful ways before taking her own seat beside them, where they could lean on her if need be.

The child chirped at them again, and Hollow held their hand out, petting the little thing as they butted their face into Hollow's palm. Hornet took note; she was not sure about any of this, but if there was a way to get Hollow out of their emotional armor, she might as well think to use it.

“No, come, join us for tea. You put the kettle on, after all.” And with that, Grimm and the other bug came to the table, carrying hardy mugs and, of course, the kettle.

Grimm insisted that the bug sit and poured out the tea himself, distributing it among those sitting. When he sat down with his own mug's worth, the child wormed on over and sniffed it, making a face. “I know. You don't like tea. We've been over this,” Grimm said, taking a sip from his mug. “You're not supposed to be on the table, anyways.”

They fluttered over to Hollow's lap, poking their head above the table to shoot their father a, _“Nyah!”_

“Rules are rules,” he muttered. “I do keep getting distracted, don't I? You have met me, but may I introduce you to Brumm, one of our musicians and, effectively, my second-in-command. One of two, but we can meet Divine later if you so wish.”

The bug nodded. Hornet was not sure what to read of him; he seemed withdrawn, yet at the same time observant and self-assured in a way that came with age. He had to be clever, to help run an operation like this, but it was like he kept it hidden.

She placed her hand on her chest and pointed at Hollow. “I am Hornet. This is my sibling, Hollow. You have met-” No, she couldn't get choked up now. “-Our other sibling, Little Ghost, from what I understand.”

Hollow focused more intently on the child.

Brumm nodded again, this time with understanding. “Yes. They ventured out with the Grimmchild. Mrmm, so sorry for your loss.”

The ache in Hornet's heart let slip the furrow of her brow. She did not realize it until Grimm sighed.

“Uncreative name, I know, I cannot count for you how many times I have been told as such. Since we will need to discuss godly matters as it is, then I say openly that all my lineage has shared one name, not much point in getting creative about it. Tried that before, didn't stick.”

Oh. He thought she was focused on his child's name? The timing was right, thinking about it, but his answer only raised more questions. “I believe our first order of business is the nature of your godhood, Troupe Master.”

Brumm started to stand, but Grimm flicked his wrist. “Oh, Brumm, it's fine. Stay if you wish.” As Brumm sat, Grimm continued, “It's complicated. I am tied to the Nightmare Heart. As Radiance's domain is dreams, mine is nightmare. Two sides of the same coin, whereas Radiance and the Void are more like, well... night and day. The Void tends not to get along with any form of light, at least none so bright as the likes of her or your father. Myself, though... fire and shadow do dance nicely together.”

Hornet did not like his grin, not the words that brought it about, not the edge to it, jagged and ready to rend apart anything it touched. She needed to get past this. Keep the conversation going, keep him giving up information. If only Monomon were still here, so she could verify matters. She was never good at reading the teacher's shorthand and as such most found most of the Archive barely legible. “ _Tied_ to the Nightmare Heart?”

“Indeed.” With a chuckle, he gestured towards Hollow and Grimmchild, who had elected to start twirling around their new playmate's horns again while said playmate tried to drink their tea, struggling with the small cup versus their relatively large chelicerae. “Like meets like. In a way, I too am a Vessel, though where I end and the Heart begins is not clear cut. We get along just fine.”

He reached out, leaning ever so slowly across the table. His hand settled over Hollow's, gentle in a way Hornet would never expect of a god. His eyes searched out theirs. “As the Heart and I have learned many times, Vessels can have a personality. And it is no flaw in their make.”

She wanted to trust him. She wanted to know she could let her sibling be there with him and have someone who understood their experience without her fearing he was either lying or luring them in to use them. Brumm gave no tells to indicate he was in on anything, but the best never did, did they? Hollow deserved this. Hollow needed this. Yet she couldn't believe the world would just let them have something nice. Where was the catch, the trap, the waiting web?

Grimm returned his stray hand to his mug, though not without Grimmchild mashing their face into his palm for a pat first. “Yes, my existence is quite unusual among the gods. Few are nomadic, the vast majority find something to call their territory and refuse to budge. Such as my sister and your father. Which, speaking of...” He held up his mug. “To spite them both!”

Hornet could agree with that. She and Brumm followed suit, Hollow copying them shortly afterwards.

Having drunk some tea and set his mug down again, Grimm kept talking. “That said, she may be dormant again, but you kill a god by forgetting. If she dies, it will not be within this generation. Or perhaps the next. Maybe she will never truly die, because I doubt I can truly forget her. Yet I can barely feel her presence any more, and I suspect what I do feel is because of you.” He gestured to Hollow. “Not that she is necessarily still within you, but I can tell you have been exposed to her long enough her traces linger harmlessly.”

If he was right, they had failed. Hollow's entire life purpose, Ghost's sacrifice, all she had worked for to protect her homes, defeated because there were people around who knew of her, including themselves.

And, if gods never died until they were forgotten...

Did that mean, in some way, the Pale King lived? He hadn't been seen in years, but as Hallownest's royalty, nobody could ignore his existence. On occasions Hornet still saw the idols dedicated to him; she'd seen Little Ghost pick one up and bring it over to the old historian who kept himself shut in the City of Tears. She never talked to him, but felt they had an agreement – stay out of each others' way.

Was he another piece in keeping her father alive, in whatever form he had taken?

She jolted when Grimmchild butted up under her head, mewling.

Brumm picked the child up, humming through their calls to rest them on his shoulder. They instantly burrowed into his furred ruff, tail and one set of wings sticking out.

“Like they said, keep your chin up.” Grimm smiled again, and though it was less sharp it was no less unsettling. “The Void won this battle. She's sleeping. Comatose, even. I would know if she were around, I'd hear her screaming through all her husks, not to mention the tie between dreams and nightmare.”

“If you are the god of nightmares,” Hornet said, not stopping the river of suspicion and doubt, “Then why are you being so welcoming? What do you want out of us?”

Brumm finished his tea and excused himself, Grimmchild riding along. They cooed and chirped as he moved, oblivious to the tension at the table they'd just left.

Hollow and Hornet stared as Grimm thought, eyes half-lidded.

“There is only one thing I might ask of you, and I will get to that. As it stands, what sort of entertainer would I be if my guests did not feel welcome? Plus, as a nomad, it is in everyone's best interests if I do not anger the local higher beings for petty reasons.” His eyes closed and he sipped his tea, keeping the mug close to his face. “Then there is my realm. Nightmare ties in with many things. Many, very painful things. Ones I am not necessarily sovereign of but that I feel. The more familiar some seldom soul is, the stronger the knowledge that bug will need that warmth.”

She should have stabbed him back in the Fog Canyon. He dared to presume he understood her? Or what she had gone through? Or even Hollow, who had hardly been a welcome Vessel for the Radiance like he was for the Nightmare Heart?

He had to know of her anger and mistrust, she couldn't hide all of what she felt. Yet he kept talking like he hadn't noticed. “The one thing I would ask of you is to help with the Ritual the Nightmare Heart needs. It is a simple matter, gathering flames from around the kingdom with my child. Your sibling had a charm with a summoning spell on it – when worn, Grimmchild comes to you. Since I cannot find them, I cannot find it, but if you do, I implore one of you, either of you, to help them gather.”

Ghost's pile of charms. She'd gathered them, the one he asked about had to be around somewhere. But she would keep that close for now, see what else Grimm gave up the more desperate he got. All this, just for them to explore Hallownest and gather some things? Either he was lying about something, or he needed this Ritual to happen. Though, on the other hand, Grimmchild seemed good for Hollow. They took well to having the child's energy around.

He stood, gathering up his mug. “Practice and rehearsal call. The Troupe Master's work is never done. If need be, you are most welcome to stay the night, if returning to your home would be too arduous a journey. What a reward it would be for us to have a fresh audience to run acts by.”

Hornet got up, too, taking Hollow's empty mug. She did as Grimm did in terms of dishes, giving the mugs an efficient scrubbing before setting them aside to dry.

They really couldn't make it back to Deepnest. Hollow's limbs still shook with the effort imposed on them, and she couldn't burden the old stag with ferrying Hollow around. They would be uncomfortable trying to fit in the saddle anyways. If they did stay in Dirtmouth, then she had seen no homes that could fit someone of Hollow's stature; the tents here had high tops, and would at least provide shelter they could fit in, as much as she hated to admit it. “We might just take you up on it. First, though, I have business in Dirtmouth.”

She didn't, really, the little town had managed on its own for long enough that she wasn't afraid of it collapsing or anything. But she needed to get out of here.

She looked back to Hollow and they stayed put, staring out at nothing. They did meet Grimm's gaze, though, when he held a hand out to them.

“You are welcome to watch, if you so wish.”

They took his hand and, wobbling on their feet, got up and accompanied him.

Hornet swallowed the bitter taste in her throat and turned towards Dirtmouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grimmchild be like _cat no banana face_
> 
> Also fun fact the only reason the Vessels can eat things is because I just came from the Warframe fandom and needed someone to be able to actually eat and drink stuff or I was going to combust.


	18. A House On Fire

“Are you all right?”

She stopped, pulling her cloak in tight against the cold breeze. Her first thought was to snap at the old bug, tell him no, things were not all right. The second thought clamped down on the first. The third gave her a response.

“If you inquire about the help I came here for, yes, my sibling is recovering.” But from the way he stared over her shoulder, that wasn't it. “If you mean the troupe, no. I am not certain about them.”

He nodded sagely, in the sort of way of someone relieved to have their views confirmed. Now he could comfortably share in his thoughts about the strange, menacing figures lurking outside town. He did not strike Hornet as the type to venture far from home, but she could not blame him for being unnerved. “They unsettle me. I've been trying to ignore them, but they get... ostentatious.”

That sounded accurate for the troupe. Or any god's personal domain, really. Even the White Lady was prone to her moments (particularly when it came to dressing her child and ward for formal events), and Greenpath's exquisite lushness was something else compared to the ravaged wastes around it. Gods were vain. Vain and, as Grimm pointed out, territorial.

“Is there anything we can do about them?” he whispered, as if the troupe could overhear. Which, with a god on their side, who knew? Maybe they could. Perhaps their voices would carry over on the wind.

She shook her head. “It seems the only way to make them move on is to work with them on something. I am assessing its risk.”

“I wish you luck in that.” The old bug shuddered as his eyes fell from the tents. He mumbled a goodbye when Hornet started to move, catching her by enough surprise she hesitated before returning it.

She hesitated again outside the mapmaker's shop. What did she do? She had never been one for courtesy visits, but she felt she owed them an update on Hollow's situation, and a sincere apology for hurting Iselda. How did the White Lady do these things? She had been a wiggly, energetic child, unable to sit still during the Lady's visits with the nobles of Hallownest. Paying attention was right out. They could summon her back for the occasional snack, but once she had polished off a stuffed mushroom or berry tart she'd be off again, unless the White Lady had to confine her to her lap for any reason. As it was, she had never learned the art of small talk. Nor had she learned the art of saying sorry. Royals were not often in the business of it, especially not ones who were also gods.

Her gut clenching, she opened the door and entered, windchimes announcing her arrival.

A heated conversation cut off. Iselda, not quite as hunched over her desk as when Hornet had first seen her, and an unfamiliar beetle girl, turned to see who the new arrival was. Cornifer waved, a bundle of papers clutched tight in his arms. Lumafly lanterns flickered and brightened, yet held steady enough to illuminate the cramped, tightly packed shop. All the supplies crammed into every available nook and cranny, parchment and ink and quills. For a moment Hornet thought Little Ghost would need to resupply.

Iselda coughed. The beetle's face grew flushed and she fidgeted. Cornifer pushed his papers into a corner, seemingly at random.

Hornet stood in the middle of it all, keenly aware of the needle at her back, the warrior's stance she so rarely gave up. She reached for her silk, weaving it between her fingers.

“How's your sibling going?” Cornifer asked, breaking the thick silence. He smiled, or at least he put a good effort into it. “Is Deepnest – is Deepnest doing them good?”

She nodded. What had she walked into? Some kind of confrontation between Iselda and the beetle, she could tell, but what about? Did she need to fix it somehow? She already had enough to do. Please let them work this out on their own. “Yes. They walked with me to Dirthmouth. The troupe enamored them, though, and I doubt I am getting them back any time soon.”

The beetle's eyes lit up. She hopped out of Iselda's way and right into Hornet's, hands curled by her face. “I can help you!”

This was not going at all as planned. Hornet didn't want anything to do with the troupe, especially not what with Grimm insinuated. She could not bring some random Hallownest bug with her. She maybe would have let one of the Stalking Devout come if they had journeyed all the way up here somehow, and that was only because she knew how strong a Devout's loyalties were.

She turned her shoulder to the girl. “Reasoning with my own sibling is nothing I should need assistance with.”

But she caught Iselda's eye. The woman silently begged her; how far she had given up rolled off of her, her drained mind a sinkhole pleading to be given the chance to repair. She did owe Iselda.

Plus, the girl looked heartbroken.

“Oh, I talked to the troupe once or twice,” Cornifer said. He picked up his papers again and began a futile attempt to organize them. Half the time, he wasn't even looking at them. “They're strange, but affable overall. Mister... Grimm, is it? Mister Grimm said they would be hosting a performance soon. An actual program of theirs, not the skits and acts they'll do if someone drops by. But he said they were here to rest and prepare for the travels ahead of them, and they seemed like a legitimate business, just an... odd one.”

That was all the girl needed to gaze up at Hornet with new hope and beg, “I won't cause a problem, I promise! Most people don't even realize I'm there.”

No. No. She did not need a tagalong. Hollow, at least, could probably fend for themself if it came down to it. They just needed assistance in the long-term. They had wandered around Deepnest so shortly after coming from the Black Egg Temple, after all. “You don't even know my sibling.”

The girl stuttered. She squirmed, as if a magnified beam of light had hit her but she had been ordered to stand in place. “I don't- I could get to know them? I'll try.”

“We can help if something does come up,” Iselda promised with a wink.

Hornet frowned. Could they not give this idea up? Why her? Why Hollow? Why had she thought to leave Deepnest? Why had she gone to the Queen's Station and not tried the City of Tears or something? Why was Iselda still willing to help her?

The frown deepened into a scowl, one she hid behind her cloak's collar as she turned to leave. “Fine. Come with. Stay out of trouble.”

And so she marched back through Dirtmouth with this beetle girl at her heels.

“My name is Bretta. What about you?”

“Hornet.”

Bretta rolled the sound over in her mouth, whispering with a certain awe. She breathed something about a lady in red. “What about your sibling?”

“Hollow.”

“Oh? That's kind of a funny name.” Bretta waved, hands whipping through the air, antennae flat against her head. “No! I don't mean it like that! It's just that I haven't heard that as a name before.”

Hornet did not mention that Hollow was never given a name. All they had were titles and nicknames derived from them. They had more than earned a name of their own by now, but would anyone grant them one? Could she? Did they want a name?

Bretta said something every now and again, her voice wavering the closer they got to the troupe. Hornet paid little attention to her words, focusing instead on her goal. Check in on Hollow, ensure the troupe did nothing untoward to them.

Maybe she should have stayed in Dirtmouth. Why could she all of a sudden not trust them on their own? They had earned some freedom. Just... not around gods.

She heard the noise from the main tent well outside its entrance. People calling out, things moved into place, a band desperate to get some practice in over the din and making themselves louder to compensate. It made her twitch, and she steeled herself before pushing aside the tent flap and entering.

Brumm stood away from the commotion, practicing on an accordion as if nothing was going on to distract him. He glanced over to Hornet and Bretta, nodded at them, and continued playing. As if he could sense what they were here for (not that it was a hard guess), he nodded towards the main area.

Hornet nodded back. Bretta thanked him, slowing to watch him play until Hornet pulled too far ahead and she squawked, running to catch up.

Strange ghost-like things flitted about, cackling to each other as if that were their natural language. Among them, bugs – actual bugs she recognized as such - worked on props, costumes, and sets, chatting with each other like close friends.

In the middle of it all, Grimm and Hollow's cloaks twirled. Their legs crossed each other's, Grimm as light as air while Hollow leaned in with more weight. They wobbled, and stumbled into him, for him to merely shoulder the weight and ease them back onto their feet.

His arm pressed across their back, keeping them close. Their hands clasped. Hollow's head drooped over Grimm's shoulder, careful not to interlock their horns.

Bretta muffled a squeal, her face growing flush as she watched. Hornet glared at the two; what was Hollow doing? Didn't they need to rest?

“Really,” Grimm said as he twirled around Hollow, “How did you never learn a single ballroom dance? No matter, so long as you enjoy it now.”

Her sibling caught her eye and their head lifted. Their feet stilled, and their hand went slack in Grimm's grip. They stood straight; they had enough room to do so in the big tent, the ceiling still well above their head.

Grimm slowed and stopped, turning to blink at Hornet and Bretta. He bowed to them, cape draping over him like the dancing had never mussed it at all. Bretta gasped, grinning so wide behind her hands that Hornet wasn't sure how much more strain the girl's carapace could take. Hornet was not so easily entranced. Grimm had explaining to do about why he took her tired sibling and had them up and moving more.

“Easy does it,” Grimm purred as he eased Hollow down to the ground so they could sit and rest. As soon as they were on the ground they folded their legs neatly, holding their arm prim and proper so it was hard to tell they used it as support.

With them settled, Grimm teleported the short distance from himself to the duo, twisting as he disappeared and reappeared. A blatant display of power, tied up as showmanship.

He bowed again, producing a flower made of flame from his cloak and floating it above Bretta's hands as the two reached for each other to exchange the gift. The beetle looked ready to faint, even as the flower dissolved into embers floating lazily through the air. Her eyes sparkled in their light; was she breathing? She might not have been breathing.

Grimm sized Hornet up. “The gaze of one who both needs a flower and would not accept it no matter how kind and genuine the offer. Always so intense. Sharpened into a deadly weapon, but where does the point bury itself, one must ask?”

“In your side if you continue like this.” Hornet returned the silk to her hand, plucking at it. Could he teleport faster than she could draw her needle and strike?

“Mm. That would make for an awkward dinner conversation later, wouldn't it?” He stepped aside, gesturing towards Hollow. “But I am keeping you.”

Of course the threat didn't concern him. He'd healed one cut from her needle in seconds, he had a god to call upon for power. She bet he thought himself untouchable.

Sitting down in front of Hollow, watching for the small signs of weariness within them, a bitter taste filled her mouth. Vessels, untouchable. As if.

“Are you okay?” she whispered to them, moving in closer lest the ghost things hear her. Her knees clicked against their shins and they leaned down, shadowing her. Despite the almost comical difference between the two, they felt... smaller, somehow. Maybe it was their posture, their exhaustion after trapping the Radiance in their own mind and suffering for it, but that couldn't have been all. It was true, simply a fact, that she had grown. She had been Little Ghost's size when they and Herrah left her life. Of course they seemed smaller.

What the difference must be like for them, for her to grow up out of sight, the older Hornet, the one who's survived on her own and kept safe this crumbling kingdom, having replaced The Gendered Child who still wasn't allowed to handle knives at dinner and who wheedled them into teaching her some of their nail techniques when Father caught her trying to play with her older sibling and expressly forbade any further attempts. For the good of the kingdom. He'd introduced her to (well, had Lurien introduce her to) some of the sentry grubs after that, perhaps in the hopes that if she had a playmate her own age, she would quit putting Hollow's alleged emptiness at risk.

At last Hollow worked up the will to nod, a slight inclination that might have been their posture momentarily failing from the weight of their own head. Their gaze settled blankly in the distance, past even Bretta and Grimm, who was discussing his role among the Troupe to his eager audience.

“Are you sure you should be dancing with him? He's a god, Hollow. Or, at least, a very willing vessel. It's already been a long day, you were barely holding yourself up-”

Their eyes turned to her. Void flickered and feathered out from the eye holes in their mask, some reaching up through the crack cutting through the one side of their face. The nothingness of it hit hard, the consuming dark she found only in her siblings and the Abyss they were born from.

She started to speak, caught herself, and sighed. They were displeased with her. She was being pushy, and insistent, and overall a bother. Didn't they understand why? “I just want you to be safe. After everything you've been through, I want you to have a moment's peace.”

They took her hands in theirs, gently closing their fingers and enveloping everything from her wrists down in the process. They curled in so their eyes were almost level with hers – still above, but they would have to contort themself so much to actually be on eye level.

As they stared at each other, Hornet tried to figure out what exactly they were trying to communicate.

Knock it off?

I understand, and I accept your concern?

I can handle myself (and therefore knock it off)?

You may be more mature now but you are still the baby of the family and you do not yet understand the intricacies of all these things going on around you?

I am going to fling you out of the tent because you're annoying me?

I worry about you, too?

Her shoulders fell. “Be careful, that's all I ask.”

They nodded. They continued staring expectantly. There was something more she needed to say, and the idea of that made her chelicerae curl.

“And in return, I shall assume you can take care of yourself?”

They bumped their face against her forehead. What she said was sufficient, if lacking in commitment, she supposed.

She had to admit, whatever was going on at the Troupe, it made Hollow calm down to a truly incredible degree. They'd closed off so much that morning, but now they felt... almost comfortable. At ease. Not quite to Ghost's degree of expressiveness, the little Vessel left few matters ambiguous when they deigned to make their thoughts known.

“Do you want to visit Cornifer and Iselda later? Not today. Tomorrow.” She frowned, sliding her hands so she could grasp their fingers, since she certainly could not get around their hand. In the back, some of the Troupe members appeared to be cooing at the siblings. She glared at them and continued. “I don't know if you'd remember them. They helped you to Deepnest.”

Their blank stare betrayed nothing. Whether or not they wanted to visit, if they even remembered the couple, nothing. Oh, what was the point? She shouldn't be pushing them to express more than they could handle. Yet she didn't want to walk roughshod all over them and any opinions they held.

She stood. “Bretta – the beetle over there – expressed interest in meeting you. I can tell her we will meet her in town tomorrow, if you have met a sufficient number of new people for the day.” She had met enough, personally, but she had never figured out what her sibling's limits were. They took everything from being alone to massive events with the same graceful stoicism.

They gazed up at her, as if questioning why she said this to them in the first place. She sighed. All right, she didn't want Bretta getting in the way and getting hurt, or something.

She'd just ensure the beetle girl got home safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee! More Grimm!
> 
> I will say that I am starting to run low on buffer; with NaNoWriMo coming up and some other projects I need to get done, I might have to pause updates for a while to build it up again. But I still have a few weeks left, and one mondo chapter that's definitely getting posted alone. (It's like 6k.)
> 
> On a lighter note, thank y'all for all your nice comments on the last update! I'll probably go back through and answer questions and such, but even if I don't get to you know that I really do appreciate your kind words, and that I love talking lore and what's gonna happen next and such with y'all!


	19. It's a Sin Circus

As she discovered, Grimm was serious about dinner and dinner conversations. “You're guests,” he'd said with a flourish as the sky grew darker and the scent of a hot cooked meal wafted tantalizingly from the mess tent hidden within the Troupe's territory. “It is the least a host could do.”

And now she sat at the end of a long table, picking at her dinner. Hollow sat beside her, sucking the Soul out of a tiktik. The process attracted the attention and comments of the Troupe members near them, though Hollow in general had proven incredibly interesting. The smallest of the ghost things bounced around their head when they weren't looking, and the others skirted the corners of their vision. A grasshopper attempted to strike up a conversation with them and had been reduced to uncertain stuttering at their stare.

“Oh!” A claw brushed her shoulder and she jumped, gripping her needle deathly tight before she heard the giggles of the Troupe around her, and in particular those of the offender in question – a termite queen, half her face covered. How had she snuck up like that? She didn't look very mobile. Hornet forced herself to take steadying breaths. Looks could be deceiving.

“Sorry, dears,” the termite said to her and Hollow, who had come to the attention that something bothered their sister and now they'd tensed up, small tendrils of Void lashing where their arm used to be. “Went a little too fast, didn't I? I'm Divine, a good friend of Master Grimm's.” She smiled, almost hiding the expression behind a claw. She left enough uncovered for Hornet to know it was deliberate. “You must be his new friends. Hollow and Hornet, yet? News travels fast in the caravans.” She leaned in to whisper with a wink, “Totally unrelated to my fortune telling business.”

“Our father had foresight,” Hornet deadpanned. She couldn't summon up the effort to give her voice emotion. Not the correct response, she recognized distantly. Improper.

The Troupe cared less for propriety than the nobility of Hallownest she had had her manners trained on. The ones around her laughed, commenting on Divine's poor choice of people to try and market to. Divine scowled and returned the jabs with equal force.

As the banter died, she smiled at the siblings again. “Anyways! Dear, you've hardly touched your dinner. You should eat.”

“Yeah, or she'll beat you to it!” shouted a prop builder, or someone like that. Grimm's rough tone rose momentarily, but wasn't understandable.

Divine shot back, “Have I told you how fresh you've smelled lately, Typh? Utterly delicious!”

Right as Hornet picked up a bit of the stir-fried meats and vegetables (the former of which seemed fresh, the latter appeared to be pickled), Divine made her way to the other side of the table and leaned a good quarter of her upper body on it, head propped on her claws. “I heard you and Grimm had a wonderful time dancing. Did you have fun?”

Hollow did not respond. Hornet kept her head down, taking respite in the Troupe's growing quiet. Conversations calmed and people got invested in their meal. If she looked past Hollow, she saw something almost reminiscent of when the Knights joined the king and queen for meals in the White Palace, albeit on a larger scale. And, of course, in the middle of it all, was the strange realm's own king, helping his child with their own dinner while they flapped and chirped happily.

None of this perturbed Divine. “Grimm's picked up lots of skills and hobbies over the years. It's such a tossup if he shares them with anyone or not. I'm sure you're a great partner – he does love to follow. I mean, look at him.” She gestured to him, hovering at his face and cape. “He loves the flashiness of it.”

Hornet stiffened when Divine addressed her. “And you! Rumor mill says you're a fierce and clever thing. How long have you been in these old ruins?”

“My entire life.” Hornet stopped to eat a little more of her dinner, letting herself cool down before she continued. She ought not to anger everyone. Not when the entire Troupe had gathered. “Before it was ruins.”

That puzzled Divine. She squinted, what little of her eye Hornet could see from under her heavy lashes scanning over her. Her mouth tightened, and she tapped a claw against her teeth. “Pardon me, but just how old are you? I'll tell you how old I am after.”

The initial reaction to bristle and refuse stopped dead. She didn't know. Hallownest's strange stasis, that had trapped the surface in eternal night, and Greenpath in eternal spring, had ground in over years after the Pale King sealed Hollow away, trickling down to smaller and smaller scales like a stream. Her face and stature were that of a child, and every thought tore her between acting like a child and acting with the untold amount of experience she'd gained. She hadn't molted in so long, she wasn't sure she _could_ molt any more.

Her stomach churned at the thought. She didn't want to be this forever. Now that she had the option not to be, she found herself wanting the aches and pains and terrifying vulnerability of a molt.

She continued picking at her food. “I don't know.”

“That's all right, I don't know either.” Divine chortled, reaching out to pat Hornet's hand and deciding against it. “I'd say I measure my life in Grimms, but I lost count there, too!”

Now it was Hornet's turn to give Divine a puzzled look. Hollow looked to her, too, a tiktik leg disappearing into their mouth. Since when did they actually _eat_ bugs? Or was that unintentional? Or were they always able to eat bugs, Midwife just intercepted them before they could?

“Oh, did he not explain to you?” She shook her head. “Best to ask later. The mechanics of the Ritual are awkward to talk about over dinner. Especially with the little guy right there.” A warm smile softened her face, directed at the Grimmchild, who was mostly obscured by Grimm's collar but appeared to have wound around his shoulders to settle in for a post-dinner nap.

Divine waved. “Well, I should be getting myself something! Ta ta,” she singsonged, pushing away from the table and heading for the food.

Nobody else tried to interrupt Hornet while she ate, thankfully. She finished her meal and, when all was said and done, insisted she help with the dishes. Almost got into a fight over it, too, when Hollow casually sat down, picked up a dishrag, and began patting things dry. Nobody could – or would – dissuade the Vessel.

The Troupe, she had to admit, did everything they could to provide the siblings accommodations. Both Brumm and Divine offered up their tents, they debated the logistics of temporarily clearing the sharper things from the costuming tent, but in the end the siblings ended up in one of the caravans that had been emptied now that the Troupe was set up and stationary.

They provided enough blankets and pillows (many of which Divine brought, talking about how giving up some of her notable collection for the night would be worth it to lend a hand) for the two to nest comfortably, though Hornet shoved most of the pillows over to Hollow's side – three quarters, rather – of the caravan.

Her older sibling had curled up around her and, as far as she could tell, rested easily. Their foot gave the odd twitch, and she was pretty sure she saw them try to move the stump of their arm.

She crawled to the front of the caravan, near her needle. The stars blinked and twinkled far above; it was so often dusty here, and all the times she had been in Dirtmouth before (a couple rare occasions before the stasis), it had been cloudy. Hornet had long relegated the stars to adventurers' tales, a distant, mystical thing. Yet there they were. She pulled a blanket under her head to prop it up, her body feeling heavier all of a sudden.

She fell asleep with her face turned to the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will always imagine Divine with a Long Island accent. I cannot help it.


	20. Flashback IV: Hush

_“-Daddy?”_

_“Daddy?”_

_“Daddy?”_

_The Pale King sighed, coming to awareness. A thin sliver of light filtered into the room from the cracked open door, and from his bedside came the desperate, constant incantation of a small child with tears in their voice. His small child._

_He reached down and found their head, patting around their horns. They pressed into his touch, cool save for their warm breath. Dampness stained their cheeks. He froze, starting to pull away before he made himself relax and offer his hand for his child to smash their face against._

__“She's been asserting herself as a girl and wishes to be addressed as such.” _A report from Herrah, he recognized the handwriting in the flash he saw._ “We have taken to calling her The Gendered Child.” __

_A little girl, then. He exhaled, the air emptying from his lungs until they pressed out nothing more. He turned on his side, finally locking eyes with the child. His daughter. Were they – was she a girl yet? Had the connections formed in her (their?) mind to create the concept of gender, to apply it as a personal identity? Externally, it did not matter, he would address them as neutral until Herrah told him otherwise. Lest revealing the future disturb it._

_They hiccuped and reached for him, the sleeves of their robe pooling around their arms. The Hollow Knight's hand-me-downs were too big yet for the child to wear in the day, but they made sufficient nightclothes. When he only slowed in patting their horns, uncertain what his next step ought to be, they whimpered and pressed their face into the mattress._

_His heart steeled itself on instinct. Do not act with affection, lest it break. Lest what break? This child was supposed to feel, supposed to be as willful and wiggly and demanding as they were. That brought guilt, washing in from where The Hollow Knight lived in his heart, that he had been too giving and too open to them. No, no! This one needed that!_

_“What's wrong, child?” he muttered. That felt like the proper first step. Determine the problem._

_“I had a bad dream.” They did not speak that clearly, it took him a moment to understand the answer. Herrah had informed him of this, too, that they struggled with opening their mouth and getting it to work as they wished._

_They reached for him. “Up?”_

_Ah. They wanted physical comforting. He supposed he could do that. The bed was big enough for a small child to join the current occupants. Two sets of hands found the child's thorax and abdomen, lifting them up and into the bed. He laid them on his chest at first, all his arms forced to move to accommodate the unfamiliar weight, the unusual sensation of someone moving against him. He pinned his wings under his back, more discomforting on instinct than due to any potential for injury. When he had been dying in the kingdom's edge, he had crafted his wings well, made them strong._

_They pushed their head against him (trying to cuddle?) and went still. Their hand rested atop his heart, petting the chitinous plates there._

_“What was the dream about?” he asked, cautious. If his child became infected, Herrah would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. He was not sure if his old enemy knew of his child's existence, or the truth of their parentage, or cared much. Though this could be the work of her brother. He'd thought the Nightmare King gone from Hallownest for years now, on his long circuit through the wastes, but he was the sort to cause havoc, minor as it may be._

_“Midwife, and a big mawlek.” Ah. Of course the little one wouldn't go into detail. Perhaps it was a random thing, then, if there was no notable bright light or beat of a dread heart. Those still happened._

_He sighed, stroking the child's back. Those still happened. She – they – survived long enough to exert their identity._

_Of course he'd end up with a daughter._

_Wyrm women were notoriously aggressive and territorial, as Hallownest had experienced firsthand when the Blackwyrm attempted to move in to what she thought was abandoned territory. She had been a little thing, perhaps not even old enough to separate from her mother._

_Wyrm males, of course, still put up with the potentially dangerous ritual of courtship, lest the species die out. He never had, but others did. They would return with occasional gifts after the egg was laid, keeping in the mother's favor until the egg hatched and it was certain whether the child was male or female. Males were taken and brought to civilization, females left to range with their mothers._

_His father, as the story went, deceased before he could retrieve the young Pale King. It took years before anyone realized he might have had a child, and went to check. In that time, he had learned the womens' ways. He never quite understood the males, how they saw themselves as the sole civilized force of the wyrms when his mother told him stories of how they stole children away._

_Would his mother be proud of this little thing? Her granddaughter, half mortal, born so late he had died before she was even conceived? He still found it strange to think of himself as a father._

_When he took The Hollow Knight back to the palace, he found himself wishing for it. Fatherhood. After so long denying his lady's requests for a clutch, it surprised him. He thought he had reasoned it out of himself, but the then-small Vessel awoke some old instinct. Perhaps the lady's idea of a tripartite rulership, the two of them and a chosen heir, wouldn't be so bad. They were so perfect, so obedient, surely a child like that would not be a problem._

_He would never admit to Herrah the small piece of joy he'd felt when she requested he sire her child._

_Oh, when his child hatched, though._

_The memory was sharp as a knife. Herrah settling a swaddled weight into his arms, putting a hand to his child's back, feeling their head rest on his shoulder. The puffs of air, their breaths on his collar. How new they were, still smudged with egg. How much they resembled a Vessel but were so very alive, their chest rising and falling under his hand, their slight movements as they settled against him. How it crashed into him, the realization he was not ready for this. That, despite his age and his position, king, usurper of gods, his lady's loving husband, the idea of raising this tiny, mortal child scared him. He wanted to take it back, to rewind time so that he didn't have this responsibility on him, this life so intimately connected with his own, without either's choice in the matter on who they were connected with, really. And then, the wyrm instinct to possess, to claim as territory, to defend his own with his life, to brood._

_Why must loving his children feel like a stab in the heart?_

_The child squirmed, rolling over and out of his arms, between him and the White Lady. The lady was not quite in the child's reach, but the Pale King still propped himself on his side and pulled his child back. “Apologies, my Root,” he whispered._

_The White Lady's head turned. A sleepy blink and some unintelligible mumbles, and she lifted up to turn over entirely. “Oh,” she cooed, stroking the child's head. She reached out, enveloping her husband and stepchild in her arms and pulling them against her._

_“Ah!” The child stretched against the king and lady, only to whine when the Pale King tried to move back and give them some room. No, they would rather be squished in the middle, so it seemed. They nuzzled him and her, and with a great big lopsided yawn, shut their eyes, their breathing growing deeper and more even._

_The White Lady stroked their cheek, watching the small child all bundled up in their sibling's hand-me-downs kick and twitch as they went back to sleep._

_“Imagine,” she whispered, “Another, a half-sibling of full-blooded divinity, beside them in our arms. By day they would play together, learn together, help each other through life as children do.”_

_The Pale King sighed, letting his eyes shut. How many times had they had this conversation? How many more since they conceived the eggs that he drowned in the Abyss? How many more than that since Herrah made her request? So badly he wished to admit he wanted it, that he had indulged himself in playing at family with the Vessel who was not supposed to be his child any more, just his tool, his weapon against the Radiance. Then he would have to admit how he struggled with this child, this one he would likely outlive. She saw it, he was certain, he did not do well in hiding it._

_He pressed an uncertain kiss to his child's horn, holding them with most of his arms while one rubbed the White Lady's side. So rarely did he feel it uncovered – even now, she bound her fruiting body tight, freeing but her arms and the tendrils serving as her feet and crowning her head. Considering how quickly and numerously their eggs grew when she did unbind herself, it did not surprise him. “It would hardly be one, my Root.”_

_“Would you love them all?” She covered his hand, so gentle in how she held him against herself, like she had done when she shed the eggs and he assisted her in brushing them free, like taking the seeds off a flower from her gardens. Had the Hollow Knight been in one of those he handled himself, the one he cradled with a reverence beyond what he felt when he beheld a successful, yet unthinking, project?_

_He craned his neck, and when she leaned down, he kissed her, and hoped that was answer enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny Hornet is one of my biggest weaknesses.
> 
> PK confronting fatherhood is another.


	21. Counting Down the Days to Go

Hornet woke with a start, panting and blinking away tears. Her dream faded away already, leaving nothing more than the impression of a heartbeat. Further back in the caravan, Hollow slept soundly, giving nothing more than the occasional kick. She permitted herself a frown; of course they were asleep and unbothered for once.

She sat, dangling her feet off the edge of the caravan. Best not to disturb them. Which she was sure her fidgeting would do. She hopped off and went to go walk off her nerves.

The campsite sat dead, the frigid wind blowing through from the cliffs beyond. No candles or lanterns lit the tents. No show or practice boomed through the deep red fabrics. The air smelled not of dinner taken as a group, but instead of dust and dryness. The stars still glittered, splashed across the sky like blood.

She walked past the tents, towards the plains stretching between the King's Pass and Crystal Peak. She needed to clear her head.

No.

Was that dark figure really the Troupe Master? She squinted, pulling up one arm to shield her eyes from the particles of dust. It was, it was most certainly Grimm sitting out there, fiddling with a pile of sticks.

Without anything else to do, she approached. He tilted his head, but did not look her way, spared her a staring match with those glowing eyes.

“Nightmare?” he asked as she came to stand beside him. He used a thin stick to prod the wood a few final times before throwing it onto the pile, a haphazard addition to his carefully constructed tower. He knew. Of course he knew, he was a god. That was his domain. He likely caused it.

She crouched beside him, huddling in on herself to conserve heat. She took the cold well, but too much exposure would kill her, she knew. She was no immortal.

The silence stretched on. She stared at the pile of wood, willing herself not to give up any of the details, to think of something to talk to him about that wouldn't put her, Hollow, Dirtmouth, or Hallownest as a whole at risk. She shivered. The cold was already sapping her will to worry on things too much.

With a sharp exhale, Grimm spat a burst of fire. It took to the pile of wood and lit, igniting with a greedy _whoosh._ It was a strange fire, an off-red one almost more pink than anything, and its heat stung at her, but not enough to truly bother her. Its warmth didn't quite take the chill away, not with the wind at her back and her distance from the fire. Hornet shut her eyes, both to ward off the smoke and to simply will the warmth into her carapace.

Perhaps, if she had known Grimm better, she would have been content with that. Sitting in silence, god and demigod, their tenuous peace achieved. But she still had questions.

“Why,” she croaked, uncovering her face just enough to peer into the flame, “Are you being nice to us?”

He chuckled, a dry sound. No, a choked one, almost. “Did I neglect to explain the Ritual?”

She nodded.

“Mm, an unfortunate oversight.”

He went quiet again. It struck her as uncharacteristic, for something to subdue his drama and panache. She watched him, but all he did was stare into the fire, eyes unfocused. He hummed something to himself, at most half the notes at all audible.

At last, his hand probed his thorax, settling low on it. He kneaded the spot, face turning to a distant frown.

“I'm dying.”

The boldness stunned her. She experienced death all the time, it filled every corner of Hallownest. Yet to hear it admitted, acknowledged as an inevitability instead of something to fend off, especially by a god... What did she do?

He smiled at her, wistfully. “Something is growing in my chest. The Nightmare Heart is doing its level best to burn it down, to keep the worst symptoms away, but it can only hold back for so long. Though I must admit, my voice did sound much like this beforehand. It did make matters worse, but-” He paused to cough, shuddering with little noise. “Apologies. I've gotten much practice doing that, it's no good to interrupt rehearsal with a coughing fit, yet it cannot be stopped entirely.”

“And this Ritual...?”

“Yes.” He waved, the fire flickering with his movements. She shivered again. “With it, this body dies, and my child inherits the role of Nightmare King, along with my memories and those of every Grimm to come before me. Our soul reunites once more, as well.” His smile broadened. “That is the beauty of it, that the Grimmchild, though they have deviated as all do in their own way, is formed of part of my soul. Our soul. It coalesces, the strength of a dying kingdom's last fears lending it the power to become whole again, and to permit the next life.”

There was no way to pull her limbs in closer, to tuck her head more tightly over her knees. The Grimmchild was born to be a vessel – of course. Who would willingly become one, unless it was all the future they ever knew? Then there was all this with kingdoms. What were they doing with Hallownest? With the land she had dedicated herself to protecting? “You scavenge dead kingdoms.”

He shrugged, a strangely nonchalant, casual gesture for what she'd seen of him. Was he trying to convince her to let her guard down? Or too tired, either from the late hour or his approaching demise? “You could say as such. Very few trust us outside of our shows – those that do tend to join the Troupe. The Pale King and White Lady themselves did not get along with me. Personally, I prefer saying fire cleanses, absolves the land of the gods it once knew and lets new ones come in to the space. Circle of life, way of nature, all of that.”

She glared at him, rubbing her arms.

“As stated, I don't expect your trust. All I ask is your assistance. Burn away the Nightmare King, let him rise anew in tandem with your kingdom.” He shuddered again, smoke leaking from his mouth. When he looked to her again he held a weariness in his eyes, an exhaustion of knowing one's suffering would end so soon, but it had to be endured to that end.

“Hornet. Princess, if you prefer.”

“What?” What else could he have to ask of her? Feed him the essence of Hallownest – his child, but also him, and also some individual so many generations before, and everyone in between. Put up with his troupe scaring Dirtmouth's people.

His cloak flared. No, his wing, perhaps too small for him to fly very far, but a functional wing nonetheless. He could not reach it around her, not where she sat, but its ragged ends fluttered and brushed her. “You're freezing. Come here, my breaths may near my last but the Nightmare Heart's fire burns brightly.” He wore a concerned frown, watching her hunched posture and constant shake.

She deepened her glare. “Why should I?”

With a scoff, he tried to extend his wing further, but it listed; proportionally small it may have been, but it was thick, tough yet pliable in a way bugs' wings were not, almost like fabric. “Not once have I lived to see my child grow to a teenager, only lived through those teenage years myself. You, however, are granting me this experience in one fell swoop. I am a father. Perhaps not yours, but clearly yours fell short in the fussing and nagging department, thus leaving me to the job.” He coughed again, and seemed to imitate a voice she couldn't place. “You're making me feel cold, and I'm a being of flame.”

It was petty, and unsafe, to permit the Nightmare Heart's Vessel so close, simply for the sake of proving to her father, dead and gone and disappeared (or not, he was a god), that someone out there was better than him. But she pushed herself over to him, letting his wing envelop her like a blanket, already warmed. Oh. That felt so much better. She wracked out the last of her shivers, her tight grip on herself relaxing. 

“You're just trying to get something out of us,” she mumbled.

“There's far worse individuals to encounter than I. You seem most capable, though. A fearsome foe, for anyone foolish enough to attempt exploiting. Perhaps in need of more sleep.”

He had a point with the last line and she hated it. So she'd woken up and couldn't go back to sleep – everyone had nights like that. So she ignored it. “You're still a god.”

“A vessel for one, technically.” He laughed, dry and hoarse. “And what of you? Blood of wyrm, inheritor of his magic as well? Like it or not, you are a Higher Being.”

Yes. That was why her mother had borne her; in lieu of the old sire's caste, a child who could outrank all, preventing potential disputes over Deepnest's leadership, securing Herrah's bloodline and the ideals that came with it beyond what her force of personality could accomplish. Herrah and Vespa had planned her education thoroughly. The times her life wasn't about Deepnest, about taking advantage of her position to destroy the caste system, how to be a just and beloved ruler to your people and absolutely ruthless to your foes, how to survive in a merciless world, it was about Hallownest. About tinkering with machines to make useful tools, proper posture and tone when addressing different classes, how to evade the Kingsmoulds and retainers and Knights and father and stepmother while seeking out her sibling, how to word her requests of them to get around whatever the Pale King most recently tried to stop her from interfering with them.

“I am no god.”

Grimm hummed. He leaned forwards and spat more embers onto the fire, staring into it as it danced. “That is not so vast a jump to make.”

What? She bet he wouldn't explain, that this entire conversation was some ploy to make him... come across as more mysterious? Make her let her guard down? She tugged her cloak over her knees, her head sinking down.

“What was your dream about? The one that woke you?” He spoke so softly she almost missed the words.

Her eyes narrowed, trying to think back. It wasn't that long ago, yet it was already faded and muddied. Bothersome. She didn't want to try and think on it, but now it was gone and she wanted it back.

“Ghost,” she said at last. “Ruins, and Ghost tugging on my hand.”

Grimm rumbled. Something warm wrapped around her shoulders; she just wanted to lie down for a moment, watch the fire. She mumbled, uncertain what she had said. She rested against more of that warmth. She tried to roll over, move away, but she couldn't bring herself to.

She shut her eyes and Ghost reached for her again, empty eyes imploring her for something she didn't know, let alone could give.


	22. I Want to See You Smile

Morning was strangely cordial. She awoke in the caravan, head on Hollow's shoulder, clutching their cloak. A blanket covered her, rough and warm against the early chill. The air was sharp, cool, and she didn't want to move. She had to move. They had things to do. Places to go. People to check on.

Hollow nudged her and she groaned.

They sat patiently while she checked over their bandages. No leaking, good. No other strange discolorations. Nothing felt swollen or hot, not that she expected it to. They did try to move what remained of their arm when she pressed around the stump.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

They stared at her. Right. Obvious question. Of course it would hurt. No matter how long ago, no matter how much good the hot spring did them, their limb had rotted off.

She sighed. “Does it hurt in a _fresh_ way?”

The siblings stared at each other for a few long moments before Hollow shook their head.

“Fine. Let's get breakfast.”

No sooner had they entered the mess tent than Grimmchild flew to them, shrieking with delight. They wound around Hollow, chirping and mewing and rubbing their face against them. The Troupe breathed a collective sigh of relief; Hornet spotted many hot drinks defensively covered.

A grasshopper offered her something she'd never tried before, said it was stock they kept from some distant kingdom. Several people seemed to be taking from the pot they'd prepared, so she accepted. It was bitter, and earthy, in a very different way from the teas she had grown up on. She'd made a face at first, but kept drinking.

Grimm, Brumm, and Divine had sat together, discussing some sort of logistics. They were still debating something when the siblings got ready to leave. Grimm waved, called to them to say they could come back and stay – or just visit, company was always nice – whenever they wanted, and to come watch their big show. And to find that charm.

Walking the short distance to Dirtmouth was slow, almost ponderous business. Hornet itched, rocking on her feet as her sibling wandered forwards. Their long steps proved their saving grace, making up for their pace.

Their shadow loomed over the town well before they did. Hornet thought the old bug, at his same post by the bench, was going to flee the sight. But he stayed rooted in place, mouth open but saying nothing but a shocked, “Oh.”

Hornet nodded to him. Something felt off, she realized. Scanning the area, she found her eyes drifting from the door to Iselda and Cornifer's shop to her sibling's shadow.

This was not going to work. She wasn't even sure Hollow could fit on the bench.

“I don't believe I've properly introduced myself,” Hornet said. Her mind ran, trying to figure out what to do. Was this something that could be conducted in public? “Or my sibling.”

“I don't think we've met,” said the old bug, staring up at Hollow. His voice had no power behind it, and he shuffled his limbs in closer to his body. “Most call me Elderbug. The bench is – the bench is comfortable, metal it may be.” He gestured to the bench.

Hollow gave the bench a calculating look and stepped forwards, finally forcing Elderbug to step back.

While they attempted to hunker down into the bench, Hornet continued with the introductions, the words feeling strange in her mouth. “I am Hornet. My sibling... most often goes by Hollow.” Should she try and help them? They seemed to be uncertain on the matter, but of course made no indication for help. They did not look to her when she reached out for them.

They sat with a _whumpf_ that ended any continuing conversation, their cloak pinned under them and their legs bent at an uncomfortable angle. At that time, the doors to the nearby shops opened – Iselda poked her head out of one, and a fly peered from the other. Iselda's door partway closed and Hornet heard her calling out for her husband. Corny, she called him. The fly edged back inside and closed his door, but Hornet thought she saw him appear in the window.

“Oh, you're okay!” Iselda, wrapped in a simple cloak, flew to the bench, reaching up to wrap her arms around Hollow's neck in an embrace. They froze, uncertain what to do. Hornet didn't know what to do about it, either; she was almost certain she was the only person who'd given them a hug, and that was when she was tiny.

Iselda paused and eased her grip, backing off. “I should have asked, sorry.”

Hollow watched her, at first unmoving. The Void flickered out of their eyes, licking up through the crack. Cornifer said hello to Hornet and sidled up to his wife, looking between her and Hollow. Even Elderbug watched on, more baffled by the new visitor than anything.

They craned their neck. It wasn't much of a difference, little more than the tilt of their head. It surprised Hornet nonetheless.

“They... it's okay?” She wasn't sure if she was more translating or guessing. Hollow didn't recoil or anything, so she supposed she was on the right track. “They might want you to continue.”

Iselda's head settled next to theirs. She reached one arm around, holding the back of their head with her fingers nothing more than a small mark in the curve between their horns. She whispered something to them and chuckled – Hornet was almost certain it was about what had transpired last they met. Shame burned in her stomach and cheeks.

Cornifer took Hollow's hand, patting it and squeezing in beside them on the bench while he talked about how it was good to see them up and moving, they looked like they were doing so much better.

They accepted the affection, let Cornifer and Iselda coo over them and talk at them with their same constant, quiet grace. They could not respond, did not respond. Their stillness could have been stress, it could have been contentment, it could have been simple duty to make Cornifer and Iselda happy. There was no slow closing or hard shutting of their empty eyes, no nuzzling nor return of the embrace.

It was Hollow as she had always known them. The same Hollow who carried her around the palace, even as their father told them to put her down and she argued that she was too small, she'd be stepped on if she was all the way on the ground. The same Hollow whose cloak she'd hid under when the White Lady's noble friends came looking for the 'cute little spider girl' to smother with affection. The same Hollow who had, at her behest, picked her up and tossed her into her bed, giggling and laughing and rolling around before running back to them begging, “Again! Again!”

And all she wanted was to be living and vibrant. She play-acted with them back then, more like play-acted as them. Had she made them more lifelike in her daydreams? Had she been constructing their personality wholesale?

Hollow nosed Iselda aside, gently pulling their hand free from Cornifer's grasp. They leaned out, stretching so they could reach her. They enclosed her arm in their hand, tugged her towards the group. No, no, wasn't this for them? She shook her head, feeling something drip down her face. No! She couldn't start crying now. She was princess, protector, she had to be strong, she had to be-

An arm wrapped around her shoulder. A hand rested against her back, firm but warm. Hollow's chin found a place on top of her head.

Her breaths came in short bursts. She clenched her fists, unable to stop from shaking.

“You're doing so good.” Iselda squeezed her close, holding both her and her sibling tight. Her cheek brushed Hornet's horn – what wasn't under Hollow's head, anyways. “I think that's what they're trying to say.”

Hollow's head weighed heavier on hers. Agreement?

“I stabbed you.” The words warped as she spoke, as if she was a tiny child struggling just to open her mouth again.

“I know. It hurt, and maybe next time ask before you need a Soul donor?” Iselda's voice raised in pitch; it could have been amusement, it could have been sympathy tears. “But I'm okay. Cornifer showed me to a hot spring in the crossroads, and it really went a long way into making me feel better. Plus, I've been meaning to get him to show me around, anyways! You were scared. We were scared. It's okay. You're okay. Okay?”

Hornet couldn't get any words out. Like they were all stopped up.

“You can cry,” Cornifer said, patting her back. “Let it out if you need to. Better to do it that way than keep it all bottled up.”

Hornet sobbed. She sunk into Iselda's arms, letting the woman guide her onto Hollow's lap, her sibling's familiar cool carapace steady and comforting. Cornifer reached out for all three of them, sticking Hornet in the middle of a group embrace, shielded from so much as the wind blowing through.

“I don't know what's come over me,” she babbled, the words all tangled and messy. “I'm- the stasis- I'm older than you, I should-”

“You should have a good cry, I think. You can be an adult and cry. Iselda cries whenever she sees an adorable grub-”

“Corny, so do you.”

“And you're, what, an adolescent? That's never an easy time. Wouldn't you agree, Hollow?”

Hollow did nor said anything to the effect of confirmation or denial. Their adolescence had been carefully guided. Buffered by training regimens and Father's efforts to raise a perfect Pure Vessel.

“I'm still older,” Hornet insisted. Not than Hollow, no, but older than this couple. Older than Elderbug, who had evidently decided it was best to go home.

“Yes, but we were allowed to mature.” Iselda's thumb scrubbed against her temple, just like her parents used to do when she had a stray spot on her face. Herrah, the Pale King, the White Lady, even Vespa, they'd all done it to her at some point or another. “You're determined, and smart, and dedicated, and you've experienced a lot, and you're stuck in a hard time in any bug's life.”

“Trust us, none of those things mean you shouldn't be able to express your feelings.” Cornifer patted Hornet on the shoulder, and Hollow on the arm. “That goes for both of you, hmm?”

She nodded.

“Good, good.” Cornifer held them a little tighter, or perhaps was trying to pull in his arms some and give them a break.

It was a warmth Hornet hadn't felt since she was tiny. It awoke an empty ache within her, a hollowness born not from emotionlessness like her siblings were intended to be, but from having felt something and missing it so dearly. Even without the years of Hallownest's stasis, it had been so long since Herrah was awake and there to hold her daughter. She hadn't thought much of it, barely remembered it, save for those rare moments she was trying to sleep and the quiet let her mind wander. Then, she missed the safety, the comfort of being up against her mother, held tight in her arms. The warmth, the feeling that nothing could touch her while Mama was there.

Hollow never held her like Mother did. They always needed a purpose, and they were always armored and cold. The White Lady tried, before, but with a delicateness, though Hornet recalled finding comfort in her stepmother's embrace before. Father... he had been awkward at best. Cold, and stern, yet at the same time she so dimly remembered clutching his robe and riding on his back like she did with Mother, and him bouncing her through court sessions when nobody else had been able to watch her, and him giving her little projects to toy with when she followed him to his workshop.

Cornifer tried to invite them in for tea. Another look at Hollow had him reconsidering his statement; Iselda had to fold herself down so far already to get inside, Hollow wasn't going to have any easier a time.

So he brought some tea out, giving the siblings their second cup of the morning. (First for Hornet, but technically the stuff she had with the Troupe was a “bean tisane,” as the grasshopper put it.) The four huddled together, talking quietly.

They carefully avoided the topic of Little Ghost. Iselda almost tripped into it when she mentioned how quiet the shop had been, only to make a hard redirection towards Bretta. The girl had been head over heels for Zote, some strange little bug who had recently disappeared back into Hallownest. Something had broken her illusion of him, and she had decided to take up adventuring herself. Iselda worried the girl would do something foolish and get hurt.

“Someone needs to train her,” Hornet had said. She was not sure what Iselda and Cornifer were thinking, with the way they looked at her. But it worked. She had been trained. Hollow had been trained. Mother always trained with her needle. She... was not sure about Little Ghost.

At last, Hornet felt an itch in her limbs, the need to get up, go somewhere, attend to her duties. She thanked Cornifer for the tea and sputtered over her own attempt to offer to clean the cup when he took it from her, saying it was okay. She helped Hollow up, grunting at the weight they had to rest on her. Sure, they were light for their size, but there was a lot of Hollow even with that.

They all waved goodbye and the siblings made their way at a crawling pace to the well.

–

As the two left earshot, Iselda lowered her arm. She lifted the mug Hollow had used, the familiar weight settling into her hands. It was older, a little dingy at this point; Cornifer had gotten it for her while they were courting. To this day, she loved its jade-like color, chipped and stained as it was, and it fit so perfectly in her hands as she turned it over and over. It must have been so tiny for Hollow.

She leaned on Cornifer, getting some of the weight off her still-healing leg. He made a flustered noise, like a teenager holding hands for the first time.

“Corny,” she said, her voice wistful as she stared after the siblings, “I have some big news for you.”

“O-oh? You first, because I think I have some for you, too.”

She smiled, gazing down at the mug. “I think we've adopted.”

He reached over to pat her hand, the mug he held clicking against hers. “I was about to say the same thing.”


	23. For Having Loved A Little While

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does get a little body horror-y and skirts the edges of suicidal ideation, just letting you know.

Hornet detoured well around the Temple.

They did not need to see it to _feel it._ The air trapped within, still scenting the crossroads. It would never leave them. It clung to them, burrowed into their wounds, infested their very shade. They shuddered. They wished-

Do not wish.

She was gone. It was-

No. It wasn't okay to wish.

Father would know. Father would be disappointed. Father would be-

Father was dead.

No. Not dead. Gods didn't die.

Where was he?

She lived too, then.

Did they feel her in them? Anything, the slightest twinge, a pebble underfoot, became suspect warmth. What was that diseased light, what was their guilt burning within? They had fallen so far, pulling Hornet into an embrace, asking Iselda and Cornifer to hug them like they were a child. Their stump ached, their intact arm felt numb and disgusting all up and down, then nowhere, then everywhere again, like the missing one had.

If they turned to look, would it fall off, too? Limp, not even twitching, on the ground, Void leaking from it, and from their shoulder?

No, no, no.

Look at sister.

So small, still, as much as she had grown. Such a familiar stage, the horns grown so long, while the body was still small. Hollow had never truly grown out of that stage, but considering Father and Mother, there had been little hope of them doing so. Herrah looked more proportionate. Perhaps Hornet would resemble her more.

She walked with purpose, now. They hadn't seen that back then. Back when she was more often underfoot than anything. When she had been bright, and warm, instead of sharp and cold like the needle she had pierced into their mask.

She had warmth in her still. A natural warmth, her own, unlike the blazing heat that had consumed them in the Temple. She had been allowed it. Bugs like her, they needed it. Yet she had not cultivated it since they left. Had it been stifled?

Their heart – or some approximate analogue of Void – clenched. That had been her freedom. Her gift.

They wished (and could not hold it back, as if it were slick and wriggling and determined not to be quashed) to reach out to her, to pull her into an embrace and hold her until they found their sister again. That little brightness, who had run and danced and played all over the palace, and trained alongside them with her toy nail, shrieking as she charged their foot, and gave them a voice in the games of imagination she made.

They had killed it, they knew. They and Herrah had killed that in her, and Herrah would not have done it if they did not exist.

(Hornet would not exist if it wasn't for them.)

(Hornet would not exist if it wasn't for Hallownest.)

(Hornet would not exist if it wasn't for _her_.)

Their sister had grown strong, where they could not. She reminded them of Herrah, of Father. The cleverness in her eyes, that watchfulness that dug into you. She was nobility, a princess, she had become capable of taking on the role she was born for. Who were they to seek to pull her apart again?

She led them back to the elevator, the City's architecture stark against the ruins. Beautiful. Clean. Civilized. Just as Father would have wanted it, if his foresight had seen the kingdom falling to this.

They took this elevator on their way to the Temple to be sealed. They said nothing of the sort to Hornet, of course, took no pains to try and communicate this to her. Yet it was as if ghosts crowded around the siblings. Their own form, standing tall in the middle, unbroken, head bowed, their pauldrons weighing heavy on their shoulders. Father beside them, reviewing the stone tablet he had brought with. Lurien and his assistant, quietly speaking about their final preparations for the transfers of Lurien's duties. Monomon and... Quirrel, that was his name, they made plans on what projects needed to reach what milestones when. Hollow remembered Quirrel coming to the palace at times, sent in Monomon's place to help tutor Hornet. She actually listened to him, sometimes.

Herrah stood alone, watching her fellow Dreamers with a burning envy. She herself had deemed it improper for a child to watch the process, and left Hornet in the White Lady's care. Considering how Hornet had sobbed and screamed essentially since she'd arrived at the palace (since they left Deepnest, from what the Pale King muttered), the potential for her interrupting the ritual was no doubt a great concern, too. They had heard her, but not seen her, as per Father's instructions to avoid her. She was upset, and could very well latch onto them, which would do nobody good.

“Would you rather walk around the City? Or shall we return home through the King's Station?” Hornet asked. She stared up at them, the light flickering across her eyes as she scrutinized them for anything that could be an answer.

They struggled with these tasks. It was not so simple, not like being left to options of missions to try and read how they made decisions. In a way, it was related, with a similar intent. Yet the context changed it so entirely.

They were not to want. They were the-

Were they the Pure Vessel, truly?

They gazed out over the City, its spires glistening in the constant downpour. Their statue was down there, somewhere, sitting in the city center. They had not seen it completed. Father deemed their sacrifice pertinent well before that.

“The City, then?” Hornet ruffled her cloak, flicking off a few drops that had gathered on its hem. “I do have business there.”

Business seemed to be constant. Of course it would be – Hallownest had to be revived. Deepnest needed to be revived.

(Technically, their sister was not heir to Hallownest. Had that changed? If not, who would inherit the throne? Mother was uninterested in it, from what Hornet said.)

(They- they hoped it was not their place to inherit.)

The elevator clunked against the bottom of its track, falling into place. Hornet reached out to them, as if trying to take her assistance wouldn't be more precarious than them walking out on their own. Still, they were careful, and kept one hand hovering above Hornet to let her know they acknowledged her offer.

The raindrops didn't stop. They knew this, and still they withdrew when the drops began to strike their mask. It was- it was so _much._ They shook their head, too surprised to paw at their mask or do anything else of the sort. They had been in the City of Tears before. They had been out in the world for so long, and this is what overwhelmed them?

Though, they had been too exhausted and injured to care much about Deepnest's natural textures and sounds until they had already adjusted to them. The hot spring Midwife brought them to was still, and the Soul much too welcome for them to do more than sink in and doze off. The Troupe's noise had simply reminded them of Deepnest's.

Hornet looked back at them, waiting.

They stepped out again, slowing as the raindrops began hitting them again. Did they just need time to adjust? They turned their face to the ceiling, only to shudder as some rain dared to seep into their eye holes and the crack in their mask. They'd just have to live with it.

The siblings walked side-by-side; there was enough room to do so in the City's broad streets, partially sunken and flooded as they were. Hornet made course for the Watcher's Spire, and no doubt the sentries and other bugs who had taken up residence in it and the surrounding areas. She had told them about it, one evening. She also told them about her fears for the place, that a hierarchy would establish itself, much like the caste system in Deepnest, and she would be powerless to stop it. They were still quite certain that, as princess, and simply as Hornet, she could break down whatever forces she wished.

“We are going to have to pass by the statue,” she said, looking back to watch for their reaction. “If you're all right with that.”

They nodded. They had seen the statue before, in part. They knew what to expect from it. Their own face, gazing down at them, almost stern, imposing in their armor and full cloak. The sculptor had found their thin, lanky body incongruous with the statue's intended aura, and hidden it away. Now they only had to acknowledge that their cloak draped differently than on the statue, the one side clinging too close to their body without the bulk of their arm.

A few sentries flew high overhead, one dipping upon spotting the siblings. Hornet watched them for a while as she walked, until she almost hit a rock that would have sent her stumbling into the canal.

She shouted when Hollow picked her up, keeping her thrashing self well clear of their body, and set her down near the actual bridge. She whirled around, glaring at them.

“I saw the rock.”

They stared.

“I was fine.”

They stared some more.

She sighed, shoulders falling. “Is this about Grimm?”

It was not, really, but if she wanted it to be about them dancing with Grimm and her getting snappy about it, then so be it.

The two continued on, Hornet rubbing her head. “Okay. I understand. You're not some delicate flower in need of constant supervision, and neither am I. You are your own person and capable of your own decisions, I'm not a little spiderling any more. Are there any other rocks, puddles, or gods of dubious intent you need to save me from? I recommend getting it out of your system now.”

They did not act.

Upon rounding a corner the statue stood tall, its back to them. Horns carved in perfect emulation of theirs, sloping into a face they'd heard people call regal, handsome, well-crafted, at least before the king and queen. Haunting, unnerving, empty, they said when they thought nobody was there. (And they did not count as somebody.) Sweet, Midwife had said so long ago, her words standing out in a blur of nobility, retainers, and other palace-goers. She'd hoped their little sibling would look the same.

Whatever one's opinion on their face, it was one of the few things accurate about the statue.

Perhaps that was too far. Many things were accurate. Their face and stature, and the cloak the statue wore likely had been one in their closet once upon a time, though it seemed to fall fuller than it would have without them sticking their arms out. Their armor lacked its rings, pretending they were gone, but not imprisoned. Lurien was accurate. That the other two Dreamers looked like Lurien save for the number of holes in their masks stood out like, well, their missing arm, or other glaring problems.

Hornet perked up, and so did they. Voices? One sounded familiar...

They approached, Hornet holding her needle at the ready. Hollow had not yet looked down at the bugs when they heard a shout – not an uncommon reaction. But they winced; this sounded angry, though Hornet did not throw her needle or charge. Not aggressive?

Two bugs stood on the other side of the statue, huddled under an umbrella. Both _stared_ , one amazed and confused and letting shine some old hurt deep in his gaze. The other, his face covered with a long beard, his eyes burned into their shell, piercing anger. That must have been the bug who screamed. He pointed at them, extended arm shaking with rage.

Hornet stood defensively at their side, cloak puffed up like some kind of small creature putting on a threat display. Perhaps it would be intimidating to the two bugs, moreso than to the Vessel who had seen her learn how to do that display and employ it as a bitty spiderling, squeaking brave threats before shrieking as she smacked their ankle with a training nail.

“That's-” the bearded bug sputtered.

“I'm more concerned about the one who fought me once already,” said the familiar bug.

Wait. No. That was Quirrel! They glanced down at Hornet; did she not recognize her old tutor? Had something happened between them? She hadn't scared him off of teaching her after the sealing, did she? Emotions would be running high.

 _“Why are you alive?”_ The bearded bug had had enough, it seemed, and was asking questions that had often crossed their thoughts.

“Lemm! That's rude!” Quirrel's antennae stuck up from under his bandanna, so shocked was he. One hand flew to his chest, carapace clacking.

Hornet scowled, fangs showing. “My sibling has-”

 _“Sibling?”_ Lemm's hands thumped against the umbrella as he threw them in the air. “What havoc are you people wreaking on my life?”

Hollow nudged Hornet. Her needle swung their way, stopping short just before she would have cut into their leg.

They pointed at Quirrel, whose confusion slowly morphed into wonder and concern. The Hollow Knight was pointing him out to their sister? Their aggressive sister, at that. Why?

Their pointing did make her lower her needle, trying to puzzle out what they meant. She straightened up, leaving her threat display to try and get a more civil conversation going with her sibling. And, hopefully, they could in turn get something more civil with Quirrel and this Lemm figure, who was still steaming over their presence. Why? Who knew? Someone would have to ask.

“Hollow, what could you possibly be doing?” Hornet asked.

Quirrel frowned, head tilting. “Hollow... The Hollow Knight... you're their sister?”

She eyed him. Her hand tightened on her needle, but she did not seem interested in stabbing either of the two. Not seriously. They'd be fine. “What of it?” She frowned, eyes roaming over him; had she recognized him yet?

Quirrel scratched his head, clicking his fingers together in deep thought. So strange, seeing him try and piece it together while Lemm stood beside him, holding the umbrella, pointing between the statue and the actual Hollow Knight.

Hollow nudged Hornet again. With her attention, they attempted to pantomime writing, scrawling imaginary letters in the air. The funny look she gave them was not encouraging.

“Drawing? Writing?”

Close. How did one emulate mentoring? Ah! Of course! They drew an imaginary nail and stood in the ready stance they used to teach her how to charge. She had successfully pestered Father into letting her learn that trick from them, and she had thrown herself into lessons. Surely she remembered?

The gears did appear to be turning. Her and Quirrel's heads listed to the side as they tried to understand Hollow's point. Not having a voice rarely bothered them, but in this instance, how was one supposed to explain abstract concepts like teaching? They had never learned a sign language.

“Charge at them? For writing?”

She was joking, right? Was that mischief in her eyes? This was to make Quirrel squirm, right?

Surely she would remember Monomon. But there was-

Ah, there was a way they could act out the jellyfish. They'd never used their Void tendrils for anything but combat, though, and this close to other bugs, unleashing them seemed... extremely dangerous, to say the least. At least, to their full potential.

They tapped two fingers against their mask twice, above their eyes and at their corners. They shook their cloak off their damaged shoulder and turned away from the other bugs and the statue, calling upon the Void within them to thrash and wave. It lashed out of their broken carapace easily, their stump melting into the fluid mass. Trying to pull it into the smooth, undulating motions Monomon made as she moved was no small feat; more than a few tendrils went wild, and they had to draw them back within their shell.

“Four eyes?”

They nodded.

“And...”

 _“Monomon!”_ Quirrel shouted, clicking his fingers together with a decisive snap. His eyes brightened, but so did the pain in them. Lemm, meanwhile, was startled out of his reverie, jumping clear in the air at his companion's sudden outburst. “That's Monomon, isn't it?”

They nodded. This- was this what having a voice was like? Not simply their sister understanding? Or was this more of what it was like to shout, to force everyone to hear what they had to say? Anxiety bubbled in their abdomen, reaching a cold nausea up their throat. How disappointing it would have been, to discover the Pure Vessel attempting to communicate, to speak. Their posture demured, and they tugged the cloak on evenly, shuffling to match the statue's stance.

“Monomon?” Hornet turned her attention thoroughly to Quirrel. “What do you know of Monomon?”

“She was- I-” Quirrel took a deep breath. Lemm stopped his... reaction... to glance at him, sidestep the slightest bit closer. Quirrel tried to smile, put on a brave face. “I was her assistant. I must know you from somewhere, right? Somewhere beyond that scuff we had? My memory has been failing me.”

Hornet stepped forwards, eyes narrowing. Quirrel reached for a nail that wasn't there, but Hornet did not draw her needle. There would be no summary executions today. Not on Hollow's watch.

“...You were one of my tutors.”

“Who _are_ you?” Lemm shouted as Quirrel gaped.

The pillbug closed the gap between the two parties, looking his old student up and down in awe. Slowly, a grin spread over his face, warm and good-humored, nostalgic. “Why,” he said, holding his hand to hip-height, “Last I saw you, you were this big, weren't you? A colorful little spiderling among all this white. You certainly would have stood out, even if you didn't have the distinction of being my youngest student by far!”

“Quirrel, what is happening?” Lemm gestured to Hollow again. He had worn himself out of anger, instead exasperated and tired. “This- The Hollow Knight is standing right in front of us. Why is The Hollow Knight standing here?”

He paused, contemplating them. One hand drew through his beard, eyes narrowing while he thought. “...The statue didn't exaggerate your height like I thought it would.”

Quirrel chuckled, eyes narrowing in a smile under his mask. “It really didn't, did it? It must have been quite the stone block they carved this out of.” He pointed a thumb at Lemm, turning his attention back to the siblings. “Anyways, my friend Lemm here-” Lemm sputtered, while Quirrel continued unfazed, “-He loves artifacts and history. He's been trying to piece together what happened to Hallownest, a truly admirable project. If either of you could offer your knowledge- Oh, my friend, you're shaking. Do you need to sit down?”

Oh. Hollow's legs were shaking. How long had they been like that? The shaking stilled as that horrid anxiety rose again, gnawing at everything in them it could touch. Soon, there would be nothing left but a wobbly pile of uncertainties and fears. First, though, they needed to stand tall, and proud, but not too proud. Head bowed, lest people see spirit in them, or be intimidated. Best to remain demure.

Hornet hissed out a sigh. Right, yes, the exception to the rule, dearest sister always ready to fuss. They were tired. Could they not just sit here, and hold all these bugs close, feel someone right there with them? The Radiance was gone, yet even as they tried to ease down into a comfortable sit, the _fear_ threatened them, forced them to stiffen and wait for more definite commands, for praise or criticism. What if they were her anchor now, the bridge between dream and waking world?

“You don't have to stand there, it's okay,” Quirrel said. He reached up, carefully approaching them as if either they would spook or Hornet would stab him in the back. Or, perhaps, as if Lemm would start shouting again. When none of those came to pass, his small hand slipped into theirs, and he guided them to the front of the statue, where the gap in between the Dreamers left enough space for them to sit down. “It'll be damp, but what in this city isn't?”

“Me,” Lemm said, “Because I thought to stay under the umbrella.”

Quirrel rolled his eyes. Hornet grumbled, shaking off her cloak. It didn't make her any less soaked, but it did catch Lemm and he squawked.

Hollow's shoulders shook, bobbing with the popping, ticklish sensation of humor. They couldn't stop it, what little control they had left scrabbled at the feelings but it was hopeless. It always had been; before being sealed, it took such effort to not laugh along with Ogrim or Hegemol's antics (emulating Dryya or Ze'mer saved them), and when Hornet came along, her sheer creativity with how to have fun at the palace became a new source of inescapable, uncontrollable amusement.

Was- was Hornet smiling? The light seemed to catch in her eyes differently. Did them laughing make her happy? When would they get a chance to try again, see if this was situational or a consistent result?

“All right, let's get you sat down, shall we?” Quirrel eased them closer to the statue's base, one hand on their side as he helped them down.

Hornet was already moving when their foot caught a slick patch and went out from under them.

A sharp yank on their arm sent bright bursts of pain shooting through them. They fell forwards, collided with Hornet and Quirrel. The latter, unprepared, hit the ground flat on his backside. Hornet grunted, left to support their weight alone. They'd almost hit Lemm, too, their face so close they stared into his eyes and only saw the emptiness within their own mask reflected. He'd stopped breathing, not even the slightest rush of air like what came from them.

Hornet tried to push them upright, managing to get some leverage, but not enough. They worked their way back until they sat straight, as prim and proper as they could manage. They offered a hand to Quirrel, who was still on the ground, rubbing his back and wincing. ( _“When you see someone in need of physical assistance, offer it to them,”_ Father had said. _”These are our people. Everything we do is for them.”_ )

“Oh, thanks,” said the pillbug. He took their hand, took a deep breath, and grunted as they pulled him up to his feet. As soon as they let go he went back to trying to rub some knot from his back. “Sometimes I forget my age, sometimes I'm not allowed to forget.” His voice was tight, despite the attempt at good humor.

“Are you all right?” Hornet asked, looking him up and down, glancing at the flagstones in case he'd hit hard enough to crack off a bit of his shell, or bleed. There was no evidence of such.

“I'm fine, thank you. Just caught by surprise.” Quirrel retreated under the umbrella with Lemm, taking it from the slightly shorter bug and holding it so his antennae didn't rub against the fabric. Lemm gave him a once-over of his own, grumbling in what seemed like approval.

Satisfied, Hornet turned to Hollow. “And you? Are you hurt?”

They reached up, touched their shoulder, probed to see if it still hurt. It ached, vaguely, but it was nothing. Their hand drifted to the other side, to the gnarled mess of their thorax, the soft, useless pocket of Void that remained of their arm.

The sensations, the physical symptoms, started up before the accompanying thoughts. Their breaths grew shallow, almost painful to intake. Their touch grew shaky, clumsy. The world around them lost focus, the voices of the bugs before them becoming a vague mumble. Those were words, but they couldn't grasp them, couldn't drag their attention back and clear the world of the growing fog threatening to choke them. Everything ached, all crunched and squeezed. It started with their injuries, like always, but bloomed deep in the center of their thorax, in their abdomen, throbbed in the crack in their mask.

They'd failed. Wyrm and Root, this entire statue standing to a failure. And it was these, these feelings, these thoughts and attempts at expression, that _made_ them fail. The anxiety dug into their throat, behind the eyeholes in their mask. Yet the anxiety was proof of their impurity, it had never helped them, only dragged them further away from what Father, what Hallownest needed. They had failed, so, so badly. And because of it, Father was dead, Mother disappeared to her gardens, Hornet left orphaned and forced to take care of them when it should have been the other way around, she was too young for this, too young to be saddled with resuscitating two dying kingdoms and an older sibling so clumsy and useless and broken.

Familiar, cool hands held the sides of their face. Hornet's eyes, so dark, a striking reflection of Father's, with a piercing gaze just like his, just like Herrah's, one that cut through you and saw whatever truths lay underneath, but tempered, made her own. They couldn't hide from her, all they could do was shiver in the rain and tear in two between trying to reclaim that supreme emptiness they'd had, so long ago, right? Either they had that (it was too late, they'd already ruined everything, they should have made it clear they were imperfect, impure, long ago and let Father discard them and begin the search anew), or they could nuzzle her, hug her, make her feel better, like a sibling would. They had watched, after she hatched, watched the children they saw while out with the Knights, clumps of siblings from the same clutch, sometimes accompanied by those older and younger. Watched the parents, because they would always be much older than she was, and perhaps that's what they needed to learn for her instead. They had recalled the Abyss, comfortingly dark and filled with their own clutchmates, huddled together because each other was all they knew.

“-Listen to me. Focus. Are you physically injured?” Hornet tried to turn their head, ran her thumb along the crack in their mask.

They stared. All the thoughts became noise, overwhelming but incomprehensible.

“Hollow, are you hurt?”

They shook their head.

The Void in them churned. They weren't sure if they were more liable to cough it up or if it would drip out their wounds. If it all drained out of them, would they return to the Abyss?

Little Ghost had haunted their dreams, ever since Hornet brought their mask back, marked with Mother's handiwork. If they returned home, would they be able to rest easy again?

Their shell was a prison. Heavy, constricting, crystallized. It trapped their shade, they would never go home again.

Someone sat beside them, rubbing their back. “Easy, easy, you look like you're about to be sick,” Quirrel said, “We're all okay, you didn't fall too badly.”

A heavy sigh preceded Lemm's futile attempt to wipe some of the water off the statue's base. He sat down, muttering about how now he was going to get wet, and he'd done good at avoiding that. His umbrella bumped Hollow's side, just below the scarring. For a moment it looked like it would catch on their cloak; so much work went into it, it'd be horrible to see it torn.

The four of them sat like that, the pounding rain keeping up a background noise that one could never truly ignore. Quirrel, on their uninjured side, rubbed their back in small circles, gazing off into the distance. Lemm, on their other side, stared at them, scrutinizing their wounds. Hornet, stuck in the middle, reluctantly took a seat in Hollow's lap like she was a small spiderling after all.

“So...” Lemm said at last, clearing his throat, “It's odd, meeting you, Hollow Knight. And your sister, and apparently both of you know this rascal who's been sticking around.”

They stared. What did he expect from them? His stern look was faltering, showing glimpses of wonder, and of uncertainty. Hornet watched him, too, with her usual untrusting caution.

“I've never expected, in all my years, to have the answer to a mystery standing right in front of me. No relic seeker really does. And then here you are! One of the biggest mysteries I've seen – don't go laughing, that wasn't a pun – and you walk right up to me.” Lemm huffed, crossing his arms. “I asked the sentries, the ones who took up that tower. They kept stumbling over themselves, and talking over each other, and I couldn't tell you how many contradictory stories I heard from memories eaten through by the infection.”

“So, Hollow Knight, what _is_ your story?”

What were they to tell him? Nothing, really. Father had selected a most perfectly mute Vessel, despite their various other shortcomings. They thumbed the pin of their cloak, lowered their hand when the movement made the anxiety swell again.

“Hollow cannot speak,” Hornet said, all matter-of-fact. She swung her free leg, the other crossed under it. “In short, their purpose was to seal the infection away. As it is a plague of the mind, the Pale King thought a Vessel of Void would be able to absorb it and go unaffected.”

“The Pale King's another elusive figure around here. Surprisingly so, for royalty. I see his seal everywhere, and the occasional idol, but no visages. Nothing but his symbols. If you know things on him, I'd gladly pick your mind there, too. Anyways-”

Hollow unfolded their arm, careful not to hit Quirrel. They extended it, pointing outwards towards the King's Station, and the lands beyond.

Lemm frowned, head tilted. “My shop?”

They did nothing.

“That stag station?”

Hornet shook her head. “The Kingdom's Edge, I imagine.”

Quirrel scratched under his chin, humming over Lemm's confused grumbling. “I've only been there a short time. The wind's frigid, and the ash doesn't make the place any more hospitable.”

They shook their arm at 'ash.'

“What's got them going on about it, then?” Lemm asked, bent over even more than his hunched back forced him to while standing.

Hornet followed the sharp line of their arm, to the center of the horizon. “The ash is not mere ash – it's molt. If you travel there, you'll find a corpse winding through the place. Be warned, it is collapsing in on itself. Still, it is the king's remaining grave. The other is missing, along with the palace.”

Lemm ran his fingers through his beard, lost in thought. “...Quirrel, I might have to take you up on that offer to do some in-person relic hunting,” he said, which got a laugh from his friend.

“There are no relics left. I would not point you there if there were.” Hornet held her head high, eyeing Lemm. Perhaps leaving the two to talk was not the best idea, too much gruffness.

“Fine. I'll take notes.” He clicked his fingers together. “Immediate matter first, though. You, Knight, you have almost nothing in the records. All there is this statue, and the occasional thing mentioning the statue. Who _are_ you?”

They supposed they were many things. Hornet spoke up to answer for them, of course. The Hollow Knight. Pure Vessel. The King's Shadow. The old names bittered, but they were all they had. 'Hollow' stung less; it had been the name their sister learned, when she struggled to form words and their full title tired her.

They were their father's expectations. That had been it, in the first place. Whether or not they had ever been truly hollow, they recalled the day one of the servants woke to find her adolescent son fully within the Radiance's embrace, eyes glowing orange, limbs thrashing. She wailed, begging him to wake up. They and Father had been passing by when another servant ran out, screaming for someone to help.

With a flash of Soul, an ethereal blade stabbed into the child's chest. Father sat beside the grieving mother, and the family's other friends, his light dimmed, wings limp, and the mother's tears staining his robe.

It had been a somber day at the palace, and it was then Hollow felt their soul reach for the people, those who were hurting under the vengeance of an improperly killed god.

“See? I told you they were right there! Hornet! Hornet, hello!” A winged sentry fluttered from under a building's eaves, followed shortly by her grounded companion. Hornet talked about Lillien and Mikei, sometimes, just enough for Hollow to recall the names.

Hornet hopped out of their lap. “Lillien? I was about to come to the spire-”

The sentry collapsed into her arms. Up closer, her speckled carapace warped with knots, rough and tangled. Her legs looked disproportionate, hanging almost limp. Both she and her partner had a gaunt face, and the grounded sentry's eyes looked the slightest bit unfocused. He waved at the group; Lemm nodded, Quirrel waved back. Hollow observed.

“I needed to get out. Seriously, I think this is the farthest I've been in forever. And lo and behold, it's real hard to miss your shade of red, especially right up here by the statue.” Lillien scrunched the fabric of Hornet's cloak, letting go when Hornet lightly smacked her hand. “Sorry. Over excited.”

Mikei pointed uncertainly at Hornet. “I've met you.”

“You have,” Hornet and Lillien confirmed.

He turned to Lemm next. “I think I remember you?”

Lemm shrugged. “I wouldn't know.”

He turned to Hollow and Quirrel, and frowned. “...No?”

Quirrel shook his head. “My own memory's been spotty, but I haven't talked to many sentries.”

Hollow observed as Mikei faltered, uncertain whether or not they would answer. Or, another common answer, he got scared, unnerved by the subtle inorganic qualities of a Vessel. He gave up, soon enough, and turned to Hornet and Lillien, the former easing the latter to the ground so she could sit. Mikei joined her, letting her lean on him.

“You're The Hollow Knight, aren't you?” Lillien breathed, gazing at Hollow with that same sort of wonder Lemm dared to show. She reached out, as if they were close enough to touch. Her face fell when they stayed put, made no sound nor acknowledgment of her.

Hornet returned to the statue to stand beside them, not touching them but close. They could have gone and fiddled with the silk tied to her needle, if they wished.

More eyes peered from the buildings and alleys. One by one, bugs filtered into the square. Then in clumps, supporting each other. Sentries made up the majority of the growing crowd, but there were other bugs. Some held the features of nobility, others looked as commoners.

The true constant was damage. Some like Lillien, their shells warped, but otherwise intact. Some missed limbs, or pieces of their torsos. A couple's faces appeared caved in, saved only by what must have been Soul magic. Eyes missed their pairs. Limbs were deformed, the joints made stiff by scarring, if they were not so eaten through as to be limp as a doll's, or missing entirely. Some bugs held their heads at odd angles, or struggled through every breath. Some had eyes fogged over or unfocused.

It was a sea of survivors before them, survivors of a plague they should never have met. Hollow pushed off the bench, standing on uncertain feet. They had no room to step forwards, really, but there was room enough for them to put one foot out and bend into a low kneel, Hornet's hand ghosting against their back in case they fell again.

They leaned far too much weight on their remaining hand, loose stones digging into their palm. They set the pain aside and bowed their head, the crack in their mask aching still. Droplets of rain reached out from the short stretch between the tip of their face and into the puddles gathering below.

“Hollow,” Hornet said, trailing off as if it were a warning.

They did not look up, they did not stand. They stayed in their kneel, cloak blanketing them, posed as any knight awaiting their reprimand would.

How much these people had lost. All because their Pure Vessel, their Hollow Knight, had been anything but.

The rain splashed in the silence, uniting the tired, broken city in its embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy we finally got Hollow's point of view! Maybe they'll come up again in the future; it seems they don't like being tapped for POV (it took me forever to find this spot to give it to them) but boy once they get it they go on and on.


	24. Welcome Home

Hornet had elected not to bring Hollow to the city with her, not after the results of last time. Almost nobody understood who they were, beyond their title. Father's pride and joy was nobody to them, beyond the figure at the center of the statue. One noble had burst out sobbing as Hollow knelt before them, unable to recall why they felt so strongly about The Hollow Knight, but feeling it nonetheless.

Lillien tried to comfort them later, offered them an advisory position on the council being formed to make the city more accessible. With the sheer number of people the infection injured, certain aspects needed to be changed. The elevators were a start, but they'd already come up with a long list of changes to make.

Hollow, of course, said nothing about the position. But they showed no interest in joining her the next time she went to the city, though she mentioned the offer Lillien made.

Ghost continued to linger in her dreams, a recurring theme she couldn't shake. They would poke her, pull at her arm, run around, all so very desperate. She pushed them away, as she had learned to, just like with the tempting things she encountered when the infection was still active.

It was like a wound she couldn't stop picking at. She drew up plans, examining their map for anywhere that might look special to them, somewhere they would want their mask laid to rest. The Blue Lake? Lake of Unn? By Dirtmouth, or in the Resting Grounds?

She searched through their things, too, focusing on their charms. They'd amassed a small pile of them. She recognized some designs – so Little Ghost had been to the Hive, as evidenced by the Hiveblood charm – but others were unfamiliar.

One, though, had a familiar face on it. The Grimmchild charm, she figured. Hornet had called Hollow over to fasten the charm to their cloak.

Within moments of it snapping into place, Grimmchild appeared with a puff of smoke and a twist. They shrieked at the sight of the siblings, immediately taking to winding around Hollow's horns yet again. They leaned into the touch, delighting Grimmchild even more. They did not go out and perform Grimm's task, but Grimmchild seemed content with that, exploring the den and playing with their Vessel friend. Nothing caught on fire, either, an incredible stroke of luck from Hornet's point of view.

Of course, the next day Hornet and Hollow summoned Grimmchild, Midwife made a surprise visit. She warmed right up to the little... thing, whatever the Grimmchild was. Said Little Ghost had visited her with them around, and perhaps she'd been peckish at the time, but certainly they could move on from that?

Grimmchild stayed sprawled between Hollow's horns for a while, eyeing Midwife with caution, but by the end they flew around her, too, peeping and mewing.

The routine she had settled into, and her attempts to bolster Hollow's mental state with their new friend, could only distract her for so long. Running through the city, listening to the sentries and civilians who sometimes needed interpersonal issues mediated (all minor, thankfully) or had some external problem she needed to lend a hand in, checking through as much else of the kingdom as she could, hunting, and then bringing back food for Deepnest's denizens, kept her up early and out late most days. She'd come back, check that Hollow slept peacefully in the den, then retreat to her own room, Ghost's empty mask staring into her all the while. As she slept, they appeared in her dreams, too, grabbing at her.

At last, she couldn't take it.

She woke that morning, grabbed Ghost's map, and whipped it open, glaring at it. Somewhere. She just needed somewhere to put them.

But one of the lakes, peaceful and soothing? Dirtmouth, where everyone seemed so familiar with them? The Resting Grounds, with the rest of the dead?

The Resting Grounds for now. By the Dreamer shrine.

She rolled up the map and marched into the den. Hollow raised their head, blearily looking around. They'd somehow ended up with their abdomen halfway up the plinth, legs draped over it. How did the discomfort not wake them up? It didn't matter.

“Hollow,” she said, as matter-of-fact as she could make it, “We're burying Ghost.”

That woke them up. She ducked as they flipped their legs off the plinth, scrambling to their feet. They still wavered, but not as badly as they had even a few days ago.

She lifted the mask off the plinth, letting herself fully realize the weight in her arms. So small, solid but easy to not think about. Not quite forget, but putting it down would bring a notable absence. “We're going to the Resting Grounds, and-”

The mask disappeared from her hands in a black blur. She turned to Hollow only for them to dissolve into shadow. She shouted, running for the door. They appeared on the balcony, glanced back, and leaped.

She jumped, too, the siblings' cloaks whipping through the air as they fell. Hollow hit the ledge beside the lake first, rolling and colliding with the tunnel entrance.

She would have hit them, could have grabbed them, if they didn't teleport again. She cursed and spat some kicked up dirt out of her mouth, the grittiness scratching at her mouthparts.

“Hollow!” she shouted, ducking into the tunnel. She caught flashes of their cloak as she ran, little more than that. They couldn't crawl fast, thumping along all awkward and unbalanced, but little flecks of Void would rejoin their body and they'd be gone again.

She caught up, once. Grabbed their leg. They shook her off, kicked her horn hard enough for her to stumble.

The race drove them through the length of Deepnest, the air burning in Hornet's lungs, dirt scuffing her body, face, and cloak. Her limbs ached. Too long since she'd last rested. Too long since she wasn't running around the kingdoms.

She usually could spend a day running around, but by the time her sibling burst free of Deepnest's tunnels in a shower of dirt, all she wanted was to apprehend them, bury Ghost, and rest. Only if they acquiesced. The fact they'd stolen Ghost's mask and run set her heart pounding in her throat.

Hollow skidded through the Ancient Basin, with Hornet short on their heels. They rammed into walls and sometimes she snatched at their cloak. They teleported away each time. Solid, then shadow. Solid, then shadow. Further and further away each time.

They ran deeper and deeper. Deep enough the air grew thick and humid, and a strange something coated the back of Hornet's throat.

Her stomach dropped.

She knew where Hollow ran to.

Hollow drove shoulder-first into the empty doorway, flying past the sign announcing they had been chosen.

 _“Hollow!”_ Hornet screamed as they disappeared off the narrow ledge. Their cloak flew up, the dark colors absorbed entirely in the Void-dark depths. She only caught glimpses of their horns as they fell, tumbling off of the rocks and ledges cutting into the Abyss.

The cracks and whumps as they hit things forced tears to her eyes. Her mouth dried. In her mind she saw all those sparring matches, fierce battles between her sibling and the Great Knights, so furious she feared someone's death. She saw them in the temple, eyes glowing orange, infection bubbling through their carapace, too weak to stand straight or keep their head up. She heard her needle piercing their mask, felt the jolt as it struck home in the crack the infection caused.

She jumped after them. She dodged around spikes, around bugs like large, dark tiktiks crawling about. She leaped from ledge to ledge, relying almost on instinct to tell where they would be. She could hardly see them, could hardly see anything.

She coughed. The oppressive air settled heavy in her lungs. It pulled at her, trying to take her down, down, towards the sea washing at a shore of the dead.

She let it. She dove, dove from the rocks to where her siblings' masks piled high, empty eyes staring out.

She hit the bottom and tumbled, turning a trip on unsteady footing into a controlled roll. Before her, Hollow staggered to their feet, limping towards the sea. Did Void leak from their wounds, or was that the ambient air?

Whatever it was, it wanted her. It sucked the energy from her limbs, made them heavy. Made her breaths gasp, her heart pound too harshly.

“Hollow, please,” she rasped. She got up, grasping some long-gone sibling's horn for support. They almost resembled Ghost.

Both siblings picked their way across the path, save for Hollow's teleporting. Sometimes one or the other would fall, foot caught in an eye hole or stubbed against a horn. No shades rose this time, no bright white eyes staring out from the darkness.

A lighthouse stood in a silent vigil, beaming at the sea. It illuminated Hollow's form as they drew themself upright, holding Ghost's mask aloft. Hornet coughed again, trudging onwards. She couldn't stop Hollow. Maybe she shouldn't. Wouldn't it be fitting, wouldn't it be simple, to let them return their sibling to the others' grave? Let them be at peace in the place they had hatched?

The lighthouse's light died.

Not in the way that lights usually died, the lumaflies giving out one by one. No, this was sudden. Washed out, as if swallowed by the Void itself.

Eight glowing eyes opened, far above.

Hornet grabbed Hollow's cloak, shaking in place, too tired to stop it. She couldn't run. Not like this. Not with so much Void. Not with the way her blood sang for it, to empty out and return to a home that had never been hers to claim. At the very least, she could stand with her last sibling, as the Void took out its wrath on the last remnants of the Pale King.

She squeezed her eyes shut, huddling against Hollow. She hiccuped. She had so much to do, so much she needed to do for Mother. Yet her debt would end here, unpaid.

The Void creature rushed for them.

It slammed into them, throwing them back. Hornet tumbled head over heels, rolling until she was flat on her front, the world spinning as she watched the thing continue rushing forwards. Only... it seemed to dive into Ghost's empty mask. It kept coming, and coming, all of it so impossibly squeezing into her sibling's mask, like a river flowing into a puddle.

All she could do was watch, and ache, and heave one breath after another. How had Father ever managed this, getting close enough to the Void to sample it, to bring his eggs to it and drown them? How had he let it stain him, and her in turn?

At long last the creature trailed off, the last of it whipping into the mask. Hollow fell out of their bracing position, thorax rising and falling with quiet whuffs of air. The mask laid on them, though its emptiness seemed familiar, now.

Hornet crawled closer. She shouldn't have come down. She wasn't going to make it.

The mask rocked. And again. A tendril lashed out from it, then more, some reaching through the eyes, some through the neck.

It raised up, and-

With a pop, Little Ghost's body reformed, and they plunked down on Hollow again.

They glanced down at their sibling and hopped off, bouncing around as if the eyeholes and horns and broken pieces of the other failed Vessels didn't exist, and it was all one smooth floor. They jumped over Hornet, bounced in front of her, then did the same to Hollow, their little legs somehow managing to propel them high enough they cleared the bigger Vessel's horns.

Hollow sat up, carapace creaking as they did so. Ghost ran around them, expanding their loop to include Hornet, too.

She sighed, shutting her eyes. This... this would do. She wanted to be there, to keep going, but she was tired.

An arm wrapped around her, lifting her up. She accepted Hollow's embrace, rested her chin on their shoulder, looped her arms around their neck. She'd outgrown this, really, so long ago, but...

She woke up in a hot spring. The warm water lapped at her carapace, crept up her cloak. Ugh, why did she still have her cloak on? She fumbled with the clasp and heaved it off, wincing as it splatted against the floor. She hadn't meant to wash it and all its contents. What if her tools rusted? At least her needle was sitting clear of the water.

She sunk back in, shutting her eyes again. Exhaustion still weighed on her, muddied her thoughts. A nap sounded nice. A quick nap, then she'd go hunting or something.

Yeah. Or something.

A streak of water slapped the back of her head. She yelped, almost jumping out of the spring. Spinning around, she raised an arm just in time to keep from getting splashed right in the face.

Little Ghost stared at her, gazing upwards with those consuming, empty eyes.

They really were back. Her sibling, gained and lost in such short order, somehow stood before her-

The rock they held hit the water and they splashed her again.

“I will throw you back in the Abyss!” she snapped, glaring at them. Water dripped down her face, the small droplets rapidly cooling now they were separated from the spring. She shook them off and swatted at Little Ghost. Tired as she was, she missed, hitting the water and splashing them back.

They threw their rock aside. It hit a larger boulder with a crack, but they ignored it. They splashed around in the water, ducking under and coming up again, dragging their arms through it, at one point just smacking their face into it.

Hornet sunk into the water, tilting her head back so only her face remained above the surface. The sound of Ghost splashing about grew muffled, the waves they made rocked through the water. The sounds grew distant, up to a distant crescendo of slaps.

_Fwoosh!_

Hornet coughed and sputtered as a massive wave hit her, the force of it bumping her against the shore. She sat up, shaking her head and blinking until her vision cleared.

When it did, she glared at the culprits. Ghost surfaced, then halfway ducked their head under, in a guilty look. Hollow didn't return her gaze, they were too occupied turning their hand over and over, marveling at their apparent capability to splash.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't stay angry at them. She had seen how seriously Ghost took their duty to Hallownest, standing up to her and Hollow and anyone who managed to get between them and the Dreamers, then the Radiance, just as much as she had seen them ringing the stag station bells over and over just to hear the noise or flailing about as they tried to bounce off mushrooms in the Fungal Wastes. She had grown up in the White Palace, and knew how the Pale King treated his 'normal' child, let alone what Hollow had gone through. They were playing. It was _amazing_ they got to play.

Why couldn't they play where she wasn't trying to sleep?

Ghost swam back to her, patting the water lightly so it didn't splash her, but still plenty indicative of what they sought.

Right. They were playing here because they wanted her to play with them, didn't they? Vessels slept. She knew Vessels slept. Why did they keep trying to wake her up?

Her stomach turned. What if they knew something she didn't? And what if sleep was dangerous?

“Ghost,” she said, her voice quiet and tight, “If I go to sleep, will something bad happen?”

They went still, like they did when listening to her when she met them in the City of Tears, or after she watched them climb up from the Abyss, a new sort of shadowiness layered under their cloak.

They shook their head.

They stood there, before her, like they awaited something. What? For her to splash them back?

“Go splash Hollow,” she muttered, resting her chin on the rocks. “I'm tired.”

It didn't take long after Ghost swam off for her to fall asleep again. No dream haunted her, only a comforting darkness. She didn't know how long she slept, likely not for too long. When she woke, still tired but less woozy, Hollow had also fallen asleep, sprawled out with their arm draped over their face. Ghost sat on the shore, Hollow's cloak in their hands, examining the stitching.

They were dead. They'd _been_ dead. They didn't know Hollow got a knew cloak because they were _dead._ They left Grimm worried about his Ritual, left Iselda and Cornifer without their regular visitor, left who knew who else behind.

“Ghost,” she hissed, waving them over to her. Their head bobbed and they sat up, walking over and sitting before her. She swore their eyes – or lack thereof – were different from Hollow's, even if they were both naught but Void. She couldn't place the difference; it could have been some subconscious thing, something about the shape of their eyes or having known Hollow for longer. It could have been related to whatever came out of the Void sea and entered their mask.

“How did you come back?” She kept quiet for Hollow's sake, the Vessel's thorax rising and falling with each tired breath, thus far undisturbed. But she had to know. What gave them back, when life had taken so, so much away from her? Why did she have siblings, but not a mother? Surely getting either back were equally impossible.

They pulled their cloak aside, showing their thorax. The king's brand had burned itself there, she knew that from when she had to rescue them from their father's corpse. Its outline remained, but punched into their carapace was something else. Something just as dark as their chitin, with the bright white eyes of a shade, and subtle lines swirling through it. A charm, but charms did not affix themselves to the wearer's body.

“How did you...?” She squinted at it. What even _was_ it?

Ghost patted themself down, spinning around as if looking for something. Turning back to her, they mimed opening up a scroll, holding it open, looking down at it as they trotted back and forth. A map. Oh, of course, they'd have to point it out.

She sighed. “Tell me later, when we get back home. Home is in Deepnest, by the way. I haven't the slightest clue if you and Hollow can communicate somehow without me noticing, but in case you were not somehow informed.”

Ghost stared at Hollow, and shook their head. Which, really, told her enough for her to know they didn't know Deepnest was their home, but said absolutely nothing about whether the two Void beings could communicate. She doubted she had enough Void in her to tap into anything they were doing.

They jumped back into the water. She barely had time to shield her face before getting splashed.

All right, fine. If they still wanted it, she'd give it to them.

She hit the water backhanded, spraying them. They flailed, trying to block the water and then trying to get her back. A chortle burst from her, beating up from her thorax as vital as the pulse of her heart, even as droplets caught her face.

With a sweep of her arm a wave washed over them. They tried the same, but their short limbs could only make enough of a wave to catch her core.

They dove when she pounced on them, slipping from her grasp before she could grab them and toss them like Hollow did to her. She gave them a moment's head start before following, bubbles escaping as she tried not to choke laughing at them paddling away from her.

They surfaced and she tried to get them again. She missed, but sent them bobbing through the waves. She laughed, and coughed, water splashing up and catching her in the mouth. Instinctively she splashed Ghost, even with her eyes closed and other arm curved around her mouth as she coughed.

They surged at her right when she recovered. In interest of the game she ducked below the surface and swam, giving an extra kick in case that got them.

The two chased each other through the spring. On the occasions they surfaced they splashed and postured and jumped at each other, switching who was chased and who pursued. Hornet hadn't played this way in forever; Midwife used to bring her charges to Deepnest's spring to bathe and play and learn to swim, and they'd chase each other around then. She had always been the strongest swimmer, and what a challenge it was to have someone who could match her! Exhilarating.

She much liked this better than challenging Ghost to combat, she found. No spilled blood nor Void, no assumption they would give her as little mercy as she would give them if they couldn't face her. Simply the bubbling, Soul-rich water, and a game with unspoken rules. More like saving them from Father's corpse, but entirely incomparable at the same time.

They surfaced again, only to wobble and fall back in. She popped up with a call of triumph, only for the sound to die in her throat.

They'd come up right by Hollow.

The big Vessel continued to sleep, as far as she could tell. They didn't look like they could be that comfortable, with the way their head tilted. Their arm still covered their face, unmoved. Their foot twitched as they dreamed.

Her eyes narrowed. She did not smile, not externally, but she knew exactly what to do.

“Ghost,” she whispered, creeping up to join them at Hollow's side, “We should make a plan.”

They looked to her, maybe confused, maybe waiting.

“Last time they and I were at a hot spring, they threw me into it. This time, I say we seek some revenge. Preemptive revenge, in your case.”

Ghost nodded solemnly, and waved for her to move back.

She did, going far enough for them to stop waving and then some. They had powerful magic, she knew that much. Anyone strong enough to come back from the dead had to.

They needed god-level magic.

Beyond that, perhaps.

The concern itched in the back of her head, but for once, she let the here and now captivate her. Ghost swam to shore, standing before Hollow's face. For a moment she thought they would simply pat Hollow awake and tell them the plan. (In which case, she'd find a way to dunk both of them.)

Instead, they nodded, and jumped.

Ethereal wings spread from their back and beat once, carrying them towards the center of the pool.

There they hovered, Soul and Void gathering around them, one hand raised in a fist.

They stabbed down. Soul, Void, and water sprayed everywhere. The wave rose above the siblings, shadowing Hollow for the smallest split second.

And then it came crashing down.

Hornet dove under, only to still get tumbled as the wave drove all but a shallow puddle's worth of water from the center of the spring. It disoriented her, all the spinning and the force of the wave. She grasped the rocks it deposited her on.

The wave surged into Hollow, crashing and reaching over their entire body. They startled awake, limbs flailing, back arching away. Ghost dodged a stray kick and, just like Hollow, dissolved into shadow to reappear at their sibling's side. Just in time for the remaining water to splash back down as it settled, too.

Hornet snickered as Hollow stood, shaking their head and sending droplets everywhere. They bent over to stare down at Little Ghost, who returned the empty gaze.

Ghost wiggled and squirmed as Hollow grabbed them by the scruff and lifted them up to eye level.

They eyed Ghost, eyed the spring as it refilled, conspicuously did not look at Hornet. They let Ghost squirm for a while, suspended far above the ground.

And then, when the spring had mostly regenerated itself, Hollow threw their sibling straight down into the water.

“Hollow!” Hornet cried.

But as Ghost surfaced, Hollow's empty gaze turned to her at last. She scrambled to her feet as they lurched forwards, darted away as they appeared beside her.

She'd not let them win this easily.


	25. If You Open My Chest See That Two Hearts Are Bleeding

The siblings returned to the den still dripping wet. Hornet stopped the Vessels outside, shook herself off as best she could, and ran in to get a towel.

Ghost, standing there beside Hollow, could not help but wonder what the den could hide.

They had been in there once, of course. There hadn't been time to explore much; they needed to get to Herrah and the tunnels were full of young Weavers and Stalking Devout, anyways. It had been Hornet's home, though. They'd be finding out what it was like as a home soon enough, but what had it been like as a home before everything? What was Herrah like as a ruler, and as a mother? What had Hornet been like when she was young? Midwife called her spritely.

Hollow would know more, right? They tugged on their sibling's cloak and pointed inside the den.

Hollow, unfazed, lifted a leg and shook it, letting the water droplets shower all over. Too damp to go inside. Be patient.

This would get frustrating fast, Ghost knew it. They tried again, sweeping their hands up from their face and down again in a mimicry of Hornet's horns. They couldn't reach all that far, but maybe it would do?

Hollow palmed their head, turning it to inspect for cracks.

Ghost stiffened, waiting for them to strike. They only recalled being touched like this once before, when Hornet saved them. Some people they could be near, but touching hurt them, in their soft shell.

Not that their shell was all that soft any more. Not with the way they remade it, tired of being batted around and hurt so easily.

They waved until Hollow stopped. One more thing, they'd try one more thing. They planted their feet and leaned in, trying to imitate Hornet's threat stance. They couldn't get their cloak to flare like hers did, but it was an attempt.

Hollow watched, head listing to the side.

Ghost stood tall and stared at them, waiting for a response.

They stared back, revealing nothing. Not even a slight change of posture. Did they understand? Were they thinking of how to respond? Ghost couldn't tell.

They wanted to reach out, to simply read their sibling. They lacked the Dream Nail, but did they _need_ it any more? They didn't know, and that made their insides turn and tumble. They never did get anything from their sibling's mind, other than the Radiance's dreamscape and their angry shade. What did their sibling hide? Their shade, most certainly. A strange place to keep it.

Hornet came out at last, wielding towels, one slightly damp. She gave one to Hollow, then turned on Ghost with the other.

They flailed against the scrubbing down, patting at Hornet's arm while she dried their mask. Hollow tapped her shoulder and she let go, stepping away so they could dry their own self.

As they did so, Hollow draped their cloak over a stretch of webbing, and their towel next to it. Ah! Yes, those things needed to dry. They detached their cloak and flung it over the web, watching long enough to ensure it didn't slip off. Their towel followed shortly after, only for the weight of it to disturb both cloaks and send them sliding to the ground.

Ghost stared at them in defeat. They could technically change their shape and put the things away without issue, but they liked their small form. And they did not like watching their efforts go to waste.

Hollow put the cloaks back on the impromptu washing line. Hornet was too busy rubbing her temples to do so.

With the Vessels dried off, Hornet led them inside.

She talked, something about how they could borrow a couple of her old cloaks for a while, since theirs were drying, and she apologized to Hollow for not having anything else in their size, they would have to make do with something smaller. They paid more attention to the den itself. All the candles, giving the place a softer, warmer glow than lumafly lanterns did. The empty plinth – they recalled how Hornet sat there, legs crossed, head bowed in grief. The webbing, some of it torn down now, the lacy structures ripped and mangled. A few sheets piled on the floor by the plinth indicated a bed. Hollow's, they guessed.

Hornet disappeared down a hallway, and came back later with two cloaks in the same red as hers. By then Hollow had sat down in the sheets, thumbing their cloak pin.

She offered the bigger cloak to them first. It was longer than she was tall, by a significant amount, and though it looked like she had tried to fold it nicely... There was a lot of cloak to fold.

Hollow took the cloak and, while Hornet moved on, they tried to wiggle into the cloak without catching their carapace on it too much. The uppermost part, down to perhaps the collar, was split open to let a bug into it, and then it could be closed with a pin or other clasp, like Hornet wore on the blue-grey cloak she'd changed into. Most bugs probably would have been able to pull it over their head, but for Hollow, that wasn't happening.

Hornet passed Ghost the second cloak. It was just about the exact same size as their usual cloak, but so much more intricate. It had clearly been well-worn; nicks and tears dotted it, the larger ones carefully repaired. The edge bore a small pattern woven into it, with some blue and white threads.

Like Hollow, they put it on feet first, lest their horns catch on it. Hornet's must be much easier to handle, not having any prongs to deal with, nor having to consider how thin and curved Ghost's were. It hurt when anything tugged on them, they didn't like it.

It sagged around their shoulders. They didn't have a cloak pin, they'd cut a couple thin strips of their cloak and tied it together. They couldn't cut Hornet's old cloak. For one, they didn't have their nail with them. Plus, they didn't know if cutting it would make her mad, and they didn't want to test their luck.

They stepped up to her, waiting behind her while she helped Hollow. Their big sibling was trying to shrug the cloak the rest of the way on, while also trying to hold their cloak pin and pick the cloak off the jagged carapace left around their wounds.

With a hefty thunk, they slammed their cloak pin into the floor and wrested the cloak the rest of the way on, sitting up with their knees near their thorax so Hornet couldn't get to them as easily. They adjusted the cloak, turning the open edge to rest on their injured shoulder. They retrieved the cloak pin and carefully slid its sharp edge into the fabric, picking at it with a delicate touch to weave it through and close the pin. Primly, they turned to Hornet and presented their work.

She sighed, giving them a short inspection before turning to Ghost to see what their problem was. “All right, I know, you'd rather not need help to put a cloak on. So long as it's not so tight as to choke you, I'll leave you to it. What do you need, Ghost?”

They gestured to their own open cloak, pulling the collar closed and letting it go so it flopped open.

Hornet knelt before them. Putting her hands together, she pulled a length of glowing, shiny silk between her fingers and pulled it clear with a clean snap. Was that her magic, then? Making shining silk?

Entranced, they stared at the silk while Hornet retrieved a sewing needle. They had seen her use some magic, surrounding herself with the thread she tied to her needle, and she'd bound her wounds with a bright flash similar to how they healed, but faster.

They held still while Hornet knelt by them again, threaded her needle, and sewed the line of thread between the two open edges. She removed the needle and knotted the ends of the silk, before tying them into a tight, neat bow.

“That should work,” she said, giving it an experimental tug before she stood. “I must hunt. There are some here who cannot hunt for themselves, and hunger does not stop for momentous events.”

Ghost swiped at her cloak, unsure how they could communicate “You rest, you need it, maybe I can hunt,” but set on doing so.

She tugged her cloak out of their reach, glaring at them. “I can't play, Ghost.”

They ran ahead of her and – oh, right, they needed a nail to hunt. They patted their back as if it would magically appear, then turned to Hornet and mimicked drawing it, then pointing the imaginary nail out the door.

She crossed her arms with a huff. “You want to go fight? Are you trying to hunt for me?”

They bounced, slashing their imaginary nail about. When their fit of agreement ended, they looked up to her. Surely she knew where their nail was, right?

From the way she rested her head in her hand, perhaps this wouldn't be as simple as they thought. “Your nail is still in the temple,” she said, “Along with Hollow's. We can get it some other time, okay?”

They sagged. All the way at the temple? That was so far, though. Well, there was a stag station near here, and one near the temple, but it was still a long ride.

She left before they could try to argue any more.

It was a long time before she came back. A long time in which Ghost elected to wander through the den, Hollow trailing along. Were they curious, too, or did they want to keep them out of trouble?

The siblings poked around, Ghost leading the way and waiting for Hollow to catch up. Together they found the washroom, the kitchen (Ghost sampled from the jar of honey they found in a cabinet, Hollow refused a taste), a room with a large table scattered with silk scrolls that Hollow hesitated in. As Ghost watched, Hollow settled into a spot around the table, with plenty of room for someone to sit beside them, and it seemed as if they stared at an imaginary figure across from them. Reliving a bygone memory? Were they trying to say something?

Their sibling had not explained. Ghost didn't expect an explanation, but the lack of it disappointed them a little nonetheless.

Hornet returned late in the evening, as Hollow was beginning to snuff the candles. The metallic scent of blood clung to her, but she appeared uninjured. A successful hunt, then? Ghost bounced; maybe if it went so well this time, she'd be in a good mood and willing to take them to the temple in the morning! Or at least let them go.

“Midwife wants to check on you tomorrow,” she muttered to Hollow as she passed the siblings by. The matte dark of her eyelids hid all but thin slits of her eyes, a subtle distinction but one Ghost couldn't help but notice. “Ghost...” her shoulders fell, and her head listed. “Whether or not you stay for that is not my decision.” She waved in the general direction of a couple cabinets. “Sheets are in there.”

With that, she lowered herself into the hallway.

Ghost started after her; where was she going? Wasn't she going to stay here? This was where her siblings were. Did she actually _want_ to sleep in a cold and lonely nest? Ghost couldn't imagine wanting to do so. They had struggled so much to sleep in their travels, it just felt wrong. They passed out on benches for short winks, only staying out for longer when someone else they knew was there. Quirrel, or Grimmchild, or Bretta. Only after visiting the Abyss had they realized why, seeing the shades of all the siblings they had once known, and nestled with in great heaps.

Surely Hollow would understand. They pointed down the hall, insistent. Someone needed to retrieve their sister.

Hollow gave them a look and went to open the cabinet, rustling through it as they searched. They pulled a small sheet from it and held it out.

Ghost snatched it and ran for the hall. Yes, they'd get Sister, and-

A big hand grabbed their cloak and dragged them through the air, kicking and wiggling. Hollow set them down by the plinth, nudging them away from the hall. Sister was not to be bothered? But- but surely she was lonely? No matter how pleading of a look they tried to give, Hollow ignored them, easing down onto their bigger pile of sheets. The big Vessel tugged at the cloak Hornet had lent them, but it wasn't going to reach the midpoint of their upper legs, let alone their knees.

They glanced at Ghost and pushed closer to the plinth, pressing up against it and leaving plenty of room in the sheets. Well, Hornet may not join them, but they at least had one sibling here. Ghost wrapped their sheet around their shoulders and strode over. When they felt another sheet underfoot they dropped, shoulder-first, rolling until they bumped up against Hollow's solid form. They kicked against the sheets, squeezing in as close as they could.

Something soft yielded under them, and Hollow twitched. Ghost rolled over – what had gone wrong? Had they hurt their sibling?

Ah. They'd shoved right into Hollow's shoulder. How rude of them. They patted the soft stump as an apology, taking care to be gentle, but also focusing on how it felt, how different it was compared to their sibling's solid carapace.

Hollow shifted, disrupting Ghost as they rolled onto their side, the smaller sibling confronted with the plane of their thorax, cloaked in densely-woven silk. Was their apology insufficient? Were they bothering Hollow? Had Hollow already fallen asleep and they were shifting around unconsciously?

Hollow's remaining hand brushed them, a finger and thumb slipping between their thorax and Ghost's body to grasp Ghost's hands, holding on tight while Ghost's fingers curled around theirs.

They tugged Ghost up until their head rested on their uninjured shoulder.

Only then did Ghost notice the small shudders and hitches wracking Hollow.

Were they crying? Trying to cry, anyways, the Void within them doing little more than flickering out of their eyeholes, not cutting trails like it had on so many of their siblings' masks.

Their arm wrapped around their thorax, and their legs folded up, and Ghost found themself secured to their sibling, held close and tight, almost enough to crush them. Ghost patted at Hollow's collar; no, their sibling needed to be okay! The infection was gone for good, and Hornet was here, and all three of them were alive and Hollow at least was in a far better state than Ghost had found them in. This was good! No reason to cry. But they couldn't stop the shuddering and shaking, no matter how much they patted at Hollow, reaffirmed they were there and it was okay.

Hollow squeezed them again as their thorax tightened, the air rushing from them and breezing over Ghost's horns.

Was this about the Abyss, and how Hollow had left them with only a glance back as they struggled to reach the top, to reach them and Father?

It had stung, greatly so, to relive the memory they'd once forgotten. They had resented Hollow for their apparent emptiness, for how they could be so callous as to let them fall back into the pit of their siblings' corpses when they, too, had crawled out of it and known its horrors. Yet they had struggled to reconcile those two images of Hollow – the one their size, their age, who had left them behind, and the grown Vessel, somehow still their age but not any more, broken and ragged and crumbling under the weight of everything put upon them.

Ghost nuzzled their clutchmate, nudging under Hollow's chin when they nuzzled back. That little pebble of resentment stayed, lodged in like a physical rock stuck in the joints of their carapace. But, at the same time... perhaps it was for the better Father had never known of Ghost. They had been lucky, to recover and find another way out of the Abyss. If Hollow had pulled them up, perhaps both would have been sent tumbling down, down, and broken to the point of no return.

Whether or not Hollow had been one of the siblings they'd snuggled close to in the Abyss, when everyone was tired and needed rest, was lost to time. Perhaps they had been. Ghost wanted to think so. They had, after all, hatched together, and clutchmates tended to stay closer together more than those older or younger. But now, it was them and their sister left, and even if it was not the same at all, Deepnest instead of the Abyss, one sibling instead of many, they didn't have to sleep alone.

…But they couldn't sleep.

Hollow fell asleep, after a time, their sibling resting quietly. They slackened in their sleep, losing even the stiffness of a noble posture. Ghost cuddled them, grabbed fistfuls of their cloak and inspected it, the maroon that would be so vibrant in any lighting but that of Deepnest, the little patterns woven into the fabric.

It was just them, the low rumble constantly shaking Deepnest's tunnels, and everything else Little Ghost had become.

With barely a thought they could sense it, the Void. The sea of it, not that far, really, called to them. It sang of home, and of knowing it had children out there yet, dead and desecrated. They sensed the corpses tied up in Nosk's lair, their lost kin so close to home, the little Vessel impaled on their own nail in Greenpath. Right beside them, they felt Hollow, dense with Void, yet all locked away behind their own shell, grown thick and tough and isolating. With the slightest more focus they found Hornet, a feeble pulse, living in a way unlike the way the Vessels lived, constantly beat back at the same time it wished to overwhelm her, take away everything that made her Hornet and leave a corpse with a mask stained in black tears. Did she know of the ongoing battle?

And then, if they focused on what they knew, worked through their realms...

They found his mark. Just offset from the physical realm. Yes, there were the kingsmoulds and wingmoulds, but they immediately locked onto him. That sludgy Void, swirling around his light, unable to truly act. If they chose, they could destroy the last of it, now. Free him from the Void, perhaps put him to rest like they did so many other of their fellow ghosts, or destroy it like they destroyed the Radiance.

It wouldn't be complete destruction, would it? They'd taken everything from the Radiance, stripped her of her realm, her light, her control. They weren't sure where they left what was left, but they couldn't do it. Something held them back, something kept her alive.

But for now, whether she lived did not matter. They had control of the realm of dreams, and the realm of Void.

They didn't want either.

They hadn't set out to become a god, let alone one of two disparate realms.

It fit, they guessed. Bugs seemed to speak freely around them, and in doing so come to realize many things, and they were pretty sure it was because of how little they could offer in return. Then Seer gave them the dream nail, and they'd used it on everything that would hold still long enough for it to light.

Yet going out to sense the Void was all they dared to do now. Every time they had reached for their siblings' dreams, it scared them – would they accidentally infect their siblings and start the plague all over again?

They didn't have to do that, now. They could take solace in that.

At some point, they went from waiting to sleep to dead asleep. They didn't know when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _did_ tag that I was mixing in some Godmaster stuff, aye? :D
> 
> And good old Grimm has his own musings about the mortality of gods.
> 
> I couldn't help it, I wanted to give all the siblings a chance. There's still a lot to do, Ghost's reappearance hardly fixed everything (unless you're in the Troupe, then it solved a whole lot of problems), so I promise the sibs' adventure will continue and they still got a lot to work through. I got some fun events for them in my back pocket. >:3
> 
> You'll find out what they are. Eventually. I'm still figuring out how much buffer I want between big events.
> 
> Also, there's a lot of POV switches coming up, not as much Hornet narration. Just letting y'all know. She'll get the spotlight back!
> 
> Also also, a headcanon: Hollow's teleportation isn't really teleportation, it's them using a shade cloak.


	26. Do You Even Remember Who You Were Back Then?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: brief discussion of miscarriage towards the end.

Midwife sang to herself, as she often did, on the way up to Herrah's den.

Well, maybe not Herrah's den, any more. Now it was Hornet's, wasn't it? She was queen, after all. Had been since she was a tiny thing, though nobody would call a child far from her adult name a queen of much at all. Even now, it felt odd between the teeth. Princess she was, until she grew into the title.

She did so enjoy visiting the princess and her sibling, whether or not it took her back to the den and reminded her again and again of her friend's passing, and of all that happened in Herrah's wake. Hornet was a tough thing, now, hardened by all she'd seen and done, not the little sprite hopping around like an overexcited pilflip. The Hollow Knight, who had always looked so stoic and demure at once (and also covered in dirt during all their Deepnest visits), slowly emerging from the armor the Pale King built up around them.

Perhaps she would get them to sew some more, today. They took well to the task, and they needed to train up those fine motor skills.

She liked their companionship, too, and Hornet's when she deigned to stick around long enough to provide it. Hornet was a welcome sight for sore eyes, and Midwife would find a way to dote on her charge again, she knew it. Hollow was a complete change of pace from her usual visitors; new parents dealing with all the high emotions that came from that, and small children. Midwife had her ways, but neither group was all that prone to listen like Hollow was.

So it might have been a strange thing, to enjoy the company of something so closely intertwined with Hallownest and their royal couple. It would have bordered on traitorous, back when she was young. (Why, how long had _that_ been?) They were part of Deepnest's history, too, now. Besides, who would she be kidding if she didn't think Herrah was planning to swipe The Hollow Knight right out from under the king's silly crown the moment she thought she ought to?

She got inside and wound through the familiar passageways. Her song turned to a hum, her mind distracted by the memories this place always dug up. Technically, she had been called here twice to serve her part in Herrah's plans, once for the laying and once for the hatching. By now, the memories of both tangled together into a knot she knew she'd break apart if she tried to sort it all out. She'd just keep telling Hornet the stories over again, and maybe some day the princess would stop her and say she told it different this time.

It was quiet in the den, but that was usual nowadays. Hornet left early and returned late, if she slept there at all. Hollow never made noise, even on the occasions she found them wandering around like some sort of spirit unable to move on.

But, passing by Hornet's room, she saw her charge sleeping, bundled up in a blanket too short for her, needle stowed within easy reach. Her horns were just about brushing the wall, she needed to find somewhere else to sleep before she outgrew the room entirely.

Midwife continued on, up to the room where Herrah had rested too long for her to keep count. All the candles were out, though she could make out the broad swoop of Hollow's horns and their body beneath a deep green sheet.

“Hollow, dear,” she said, a quiet call. They often looked asleep when they were wide awake and would respond when spoken to. What did they think, lying there in the dark, without a stitch of entertainment or duty to attend to? “Are you awake?”

Their head raised, as expected, and she hummed warmly.

What she did not expect was a second mask to pop up, much smaller and bothersome in its familiarity.

“You!”

The little Vessel stilled, disappearing from view as Hollow sat up.

Had Hornet not said the little one died? Went off and defeated the thing that had been trying to creep into her mind since before the Princess hatched? Why were they here? Them and their prying?

“Ah, hello, friend. Why, it's so dark in here, I can hardly see you! Now, where's a light...” She pawed around in search of something to light one of the many candles in the room. In the process, she bumped into a number of said candles, but a couple heavier thunks indicated the Vessels weren't doing better. She, at least, was not as vision dependent as they were.

A flint struck. A candle lit. A small, dark hand retreated from the flame, a larger one grasping the candle's base and moving to light the other candles. Slowly, a warm glow and the scent of beeswax filled the room, comforting and homey.

And now with the light on, she could see the Weaver red the two Vessels wore. What happened to their cloaks? She looked between them, too flabbergasted by the one returning to say anything, but making it plenty clear what she thought. Why were they wearing Hornet's clothes? Okay, the little one wore a cloak Hornet hadn't needed in a long time, and Hollow wore something nobody else had ever worn.

“Did you get your cloaks dirty?” she asked. She approached Hollow, who ever so obediently readjusted their cloak and sat still, but she watched Ghost. They had something, something that let them try to get into her mind, and she'd not be having any of that.

Yet here they were, completely unarmed. And, more than that, they had flopped onto the sheet and were waving their arms and legs about.

“Swimming? You went swimming?” She didn't have to look to prod Hollow's remaining arm into position for her to test their growing strength.

Ghost nodded vigorously.

As Hollow pushed back against Midwife's limbs, she told the Vessels, “Now I am fine to do my work with an audience, but Hollow needs to be all right with you being here, and you need to not get in the way while I work if you are going to stay. No shame if you don't, by the way.”

Ghost looked to Hollow, who glanced from them down to the spot beside them. So it seemed they were welcome to stay. So be it. At least they were quiet, she'd seen the full spectrum of people sticking around during her work, and they had to at least be able to behave. Plus, this was far less urgent than the duties that had earned her title. It also wasn't her specialty by far, but Deepnest was sorely lacking in anyone who knew anything that wasn't basic first aid or field medicine. She knew how to spot a normal infection – she was good at recognizing the abnormal kind, too – and judge how well something was healing. She could tell if someone was recovering their strength and recommend ways to build it up again.

Just... not in the same way.

Hollow, at least, was a model patient. Of course they'd be. She saw them, back before they were sealed and took Herrah with them. Obeyed every word you said. Couldn't try and argue against her advice. Not having a voice hadn't stopped some of the folks she knew from expressing their opinions, but the King of Hallownest had quite successfully beaten out any last attempt to communicate. Whatever they were made of, she didn't know if there was anything in particular she needed to watch for, but it seemed quite hardy and resistant to the usual ills of recovery.

They sat perfectly still as she let their arm go and turned to their torso. She asked, of course, before easing their cloak off over their head, a careful process to keep from ripping anything. (Thankfully, Herrah had assumed her child would grow up and get her sibling's exact proportions, though that cloak certainly wasn't going back on the same way. Maybe she'd find the one they sewed.) She could poke and prod at them as much as she needed, though she tried not to do anything too painful.

Despite how caved in their thorax was, they seemed to function fine, which puzzled her most greatly. Entire chunks of their carapace curved inwards, to the point she would assume them dead if they were a normal bug. That was on top of everything else. Whatever the King had done, he made a most hardy child.

Well, they'd survived, anyways.

They didn't wince or squirm as she worked, which seemed to be a good sign. They'd shown pain before, when they weren't lucid enough to be composed, and they didn't seem to have attained any paralyzing injuries.

Ghost watched while she worked, circling around their sibling to get better angles. They kept clear of her face, keeping a polite range. She hoped that meant they couldn't go poking around in her head; the idea of it kept itching at her and distracting her.

She had just deemed Hollow's wounds to be healing nicely when she heard a voice behind her.

“Midwife?”

“Hello, dear!” she cooed, too busy getting Hollow to stretch their legs to turn to Hornet. Hm. They were shakier than they had been last time, but if they'd all gone swimming and such, that could be the cause. She certainly wasn't going to tell them not to get out and exercise. Everyone needed a change of pace sometimes. Even she left her den. “Do you know where their cloaks are?”

Ghost darted off, towards the balcony door. Why were they- ah. Hanging to dry. She knew for a fact Hollow and Hornet knew better than to swim with their cloaks on, but she had also seen Ghost wander into her den after taking a dip, unfortunate or otherwise, in the lake.

“Is everything okay?” Hornet asked, coming to stand by her side, watching as Hollow finished the last of the stretches, reaching out for their feet.

“Tired, so it seems, but Ghost said you were out swimming. Which-” She couldn't think of a way to put this gently. “They're back.”

Hornet mumbled something under her breath and nodded. “Yes. Recovering them was a... journey. I think all of us expended a lot in the effort.”

“You don't sound terribly enthusiastic about seeing your sibling.” It wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps for Hornet, it would be. Not for Midwife.

Hornet rubbed her face, putting off an answer. She batted Hollow away when they extended a hand to her – what were they trying to express? They didn't seem as concerned about all this, but they were made not to feel anything at all. Getting a read of them was never going to be easy.

“It's a lot,” she said at last. She kept her voice even, but the pauses between her words said so much on their own. “I mourned my siblings, and then they returned. What is there to do with all this-”

Hollow leaned forwards, tapping their chelicerae against the top of her head. She shut her eyes, letting them butt their head against hers.

“I missed you, yes. And Little Ghost. It's good to have you back.” She sighed, more like exhaled heavily. “But I expected to lose you.”

The door to the balcony opened and Midwife heard the sound of fabric being dragged. Oh, no, of course the cloaks would be too big for Little Ghost to carry right. She couldn't see the Vessel behind the pile of fabric, though she heard their feet pattering around.

Hornet went to go help her sibling, removing Hollow's cloak from their arms. Midwife backed away, letting the siblings know she was done with her checkup and so she could see what they did. Did Hollow need help dressing?

Evidently not. They draped the cloak over their shoulders and adjusted it just fine. Hornet passed them their pin and, while she changed into her usual cloak, they fiddled with the pin until they'd gotten it closed. Good; every little bit of independence helped, as she'd learned over the years.

“Where are the lot of you planning on going next, then?”

Ghost pointed upwards. Midwife followed where they pointed, looked down at them again, but they made no sort of motion to explain, only pointed more insistently.

“Ghost wants their things back,” Hornet said.

Which would take them to the temple where Hollow had been sealed away, wouldn't it? She'd never seen the place, but she had heard of it. She did so hope they weren't planning on bringing Hollow back there. They didn't make any motions while their siblings discussed, but she figured that didn't mean much with them.

“Didn't you bring some home?” Midwife asked. She'd seen that one creature, apparently befriending Hollow what with Ghost being gone. That was connected to a charm, was it not? She'd seen their map out, too.

Ghost stared expectantly at their sister, who sighed, her eyes narrowing. Hornet stalked off, with Ghost hot on her heels. Ah, siblings. What an adventure for the princess; she'd never been the older one, and Little Ghost seemed much closer to her age than Hollow anyways. Though the older Vessel didn't seem to have... matured, really, since they were sealed. Unless, again, the Pale King's teachings hid it, or everything that had left them so injured chipped away at their mind, too. Not that they were a true bug, either, were they? Would Hornet catch up in age to them?

...Would Little Ghost?

Why would one Vessel be younger than the other? Surely the King would have no reason to make more once he had his pure one. But maybe there was some way? Oh, what if there were other younger siblings hiding out somewhere?

“Mind my asking,” she started, waving a limb at the siblings. “I know where Hornet comes in the hatching order. Ghost, what about you?”

The smaller Vessel went still, pondering the question, or so she hoped.

They stood by Hollow and turned towards the hall, waiting.

Hornet came back carrying a handful of things in her arms and no doubt with more in her pockets. A strange circle with a handle stood out and Midwife's eyes narrowed. She knew that thing, and Hornet, catching sight of her displeasure, edged away from her.

Ghost didn't care or notice. They ran up to Hornet and circled around her, shooing her towards Hollow. She protested at first, asked Hollow what was wrong next. When all they did was stare at her, she grumbled and took up a spot next to them. She gave Ghost some of their things back, the infernal metal device among them.

Midwife had no idea where Ghost stowed the things. Their cloak showed no signs of sagging under anything's weight, she saw no other signs of pockets. But the items were in their hand and then they tucked them under their cloak and came back empty-handed.

With everything they got disappeared and Hornet promising to give them the rest after they did whatever they needed her to stand next to Hollow for, Ghost answered Midwife's question.

They did so by standing in front of Hollow. Not beside them, like Hornet did. Not even beside Hornet. No, right in front of Hollow.

Midwife took a deep breath. The King's plans were giving her a headache. “You and Hollow are clutchmates?”

They nodded.

She uncertainly raised a limb to point at the taller, matured Vessel. “Then why is...?”

Ghost shrugged.

Hollow, watching their sibling, copied the motion.

Midwife hissed a sigh between her teeth. Ghost went to get their other things – almost all charms – from Hornet, leaving her to ponder. They must not have molted, or not molted much. Or the Vessels pupated, but if they did, wouldn't Hornet, too? Being siblings and all. Certain things could halt the growth process, or at least stunt it, but Ghost didn't look stunted.

Malnourishment could do it – but she didn't see Hollow eat often, and they gave her the soulless corpses anyways, and they'd not starved.

Insecurity could, too – a bug who didn't feel safe enough to molt usually didn't. It was why Hornet tended to come home during her molts, up until she began training under Vespa, or unless she'd been about to molt and then went to the Palace. Quite likely, here.

“You going to stay that height, then?” she asked Ghost as they fiddled with their charms and notches. They glanced up at her, down at their body, up at Hollow, then returned their attention to the charms.

“Midwife,” Hornet grumbled. She started for the hall. Off to go get herself something to eat, Midwife hoped. Something she could bring back here and sit and be with company.

“I'd much like to know,” Midwife called as her charge walked off, “In case they do start growing, and then we have two giants wandering around the place.” At least Ghost would be easier to keep track of if they were Hollow's size.

With Hornet doing something else, and Ghost too distracted by their charms to hit her with their mind-invading device, and Hollow being distracted by Ghost as the smaller – though not younger, apparently – Vessel tried to show off and share their charms, Midwife puttered. She folded up sheets that hadn't been touched much, not since Hornet took from them to make Hollow's cloak. She ought to find another project for them. Perhaps she would go ask Weft if the Weavers had left any patterns, or drawings she could use to base a project off of. Little did the spirit good like seeing something one had made, and the Pale King had kept so much as words from his progeny.

That would be another project, then. Getting some silk scrolls and ink and seeing what words the Vessels had in them.

Speaking of, she glanced back to find the two Vessels looking over a map. Ghost pointed at different locations and looked up to their sibling, seeking some sort of response.

They tapped different spots Midwife couldn't see, sometimes more or less insistent. Up, down, left, right, one tap, three. Sometimes they swatted the map, as if to brush a place away.

Finally, they tapped, and Hollow tapped the spot, too.

With a satisfied finality, Ghost plunked down one of their unused charms on the spot.

When Hornet returned, her needle at her back, Ghost ran up to her and pointed at the map. “Give me a second,” she kept telling them, and Midwife saw why immediately.

Her dear charge had brought her something to eat.

With the meal consumed (she was careful not to bite down on Hornet's arm, didn't even scrape the girl with her teeth), Midwife curled her long body into a circle and began picking through the sheets, looking for a nice color combination. Herrah had more than enough to spare, and Midwife knew were the queen stored her fabrics. “I think your siblings want to go somewhere,” she said.

“I know,” Hornet sighed. Since when had the young girl's voice grown so old, so world-weary? Had Midwife simply not noticed? The idea of the princess growing up unsettled her. How much dear Herrah missed in her daughter's life, how much more she would miss yet. How different Hornet was from the odd-looking spiderling who had spilled from the queen's lone egg and immediately fallen asleep in her mother's arms. Not that anyone present knew she slept at the time. Herrah, who had planned to put off informing the Pale King of the child's birth, turned the hatchling over to Midwife, burst from her den, grabbed the nearest Weaver by the collar, and sent them off at once with a most urgent message.

Midwife had returned the spiderling to Herrah and curled around the Queen of Deepnest as she wept into her side. It always hurt, seeing a new parent, or would-have-been-a-parent, like this. And, coming after she'd tended to Herrah in the middle of the night some weeks after the first attempt when her body violently rejected a clutch that came out a black, gooey mass, and all the trying and trying with the last sire only to come up childless every time, Midwife had been through with seeing Herrah suffer so much.

That particular part of the story, at least, had a happy end. Midwife hadn't witnessed it, but when she'd checked on Herrah the next day her friend hadn't been able to stop talking about it. How her spiderling had stirred when put in Hollow's arms, just enough to cuddle closer and grasp their finger in a most un-Vessel-like way. (Hornet had also figured out crying that night and was extremely shrill about it, but Herrah had been in the mood to focus on what she deemed the first sign her baby was okay.)

(Midwife also caught the Pale King trying to curl around his daughter's nest at one point before he left and she was certain he'd tried to hiss at her for intruding on him and the baby. As well as she knew not to mess with a brooding parent she'd almost laughed at his pitiful attempt at intimidation. That he gave her a look foretelling her death if she tried anything was the one thing that stopped her.)

“Midwife, we're heading out.” Hm? Oh, yes, Hornet and her siblings. “It might be a while.”

“Of course, dear. I'll see myself out.” She had work to do, anyways. Namely, pinning down some of the Devout long enough to see how they were doing. She'd not get caught by surprise if they got to rutting.

Hornet coaxed Hollow to their feet; they were much steadier than they'd been, though nowhere near as spritely as Ghost, running and jumping all around.

Midwife watched for the siblings as they left, and once they were out of sight, listened for Hornet's shout or for any distant splashing or crunching. She'd not have anyone getting hurt just trying to get out.

When nothing seemed to go wrong, she set off, herself.

Hopefully the siblings would have a nice walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the one chapter this time, folks! The next one is tied to a flashback, so couldn't much separate the two.


	27. I'll Hold You Til You're Free

The Queen's Gardens weren't what they'd been when Hollow was last there.

That much was evident, with how they kept looking around, stopping to stare at knots of thorns and overgrown plants. Ghost forged ahead, knowing right where they were going. (Sort of; they kept pulling out their map when they got ahead, checking it, and sprinting off again.)

Hollow sometimes started to reach for their nail when they hit particularly thick brambles, only to recall it wasn't there and lower their hand again.

Hornet tried to keep ahead of them, clear a path where she could. The thorns, blessed by the White Lady's presence, were far tougher than a thorn ought to be; her needle pinged off of all but the thinner ones.

All her efforts didn't make the path much easier for Hollow, who often had to carefully wedge into gaps, or give up and lean back on the thorns, relying on their size and weight distribution to keep from being pierced. Hornet kept fearing she'd hear their cloak rip, but the silk wouldn't pierce so easily, even at such a lighter grade than her hunter's cloaks.

The queen's repose wouldn't fit them, she realized as they came up to it. She'd been so busy trying to make sure they were okay she'd forgotten how narrow the passage was. Ghost stood outside it, waiting, and once Hornet and Hollow were in sight they ducked inside.

Hollow stood there and sighed. There was plenty to sigh over, she figured; they couldn't see their mother, their mother had hidden away so thoroughly, and Dryya's corpse still sat there, the Great Knight broken and slumped.

She'd find a way.

She owed them that much.

She patted their hand, leading them to sit beside the entrance. Not far from Dryya's corpse, unfortunately, but there weren't many options. There had to be another entrance, right? She knew this used to be one of the White Lady's gazebos, overgrown as it was. “It's okay. We'll figure something out,” she said.

As she entered, she promised, “I'll be back soon.”

Ghost stood just outside the Lady's chamber. The Lady herself was alert, turning her head what little she could. She knew someone was here, but clearly couldn't tell who quite yet.

She shooed Ghost in, and followed shortly after.

The White Lady went at ease, recognizing at least her own blood. “It returns,” she said. “For having once been dead and gone. So familiar, yet different. The Void changed my spawn once, did it change once again? It must have.”

Ghost approached her, hopping up onto her roots so they could get close and pat her knee. Were they comforting her? Trying to get permission to climb up?

They pointed at Hornet, who stood straight and tall as she could. The White Lady couldn't see either of them, at least not well, but she did hum, trying to figure out what they were getting at.

Hornet coughed. “White Lady-”

“Oh!” The White Lady looked around in the general direction of Hornet's voice. “You return, so soon, and with my spawn in tow. A most welcome visit.”

She nodded, keeping her head bowed. “I return with both. Hollow- The Hollow Knight, however, cannot get inside. They... they cannot fit.”

One could have touched the White Lady's disappointment, worn it like a shawl. She could not sink far, but the regal edge to her faded away, leaving a tired, ancient woman in bindings of her own making.

It was quiet, for a time, before the White Lady nodded in the opposite direction of the entrance. “The wall. Cut it open.”

“Lady?” Hornet asked, though Ghost already trotted up to the wall, sizing up the task. Those were her roots forming it, her own self.

“I shall draw away what I can. Cut off the rest. I know you are a sharp thing, following in the path of your mother and father and she who named you. I beg this of you. Cut it.”

Hornet drew her needle and, with one hesitant look towards her stepmother, sprung forth with a slash.

The White Lady held back a gasp as they worked, though Hornet saw her eyes shut and her glow waver. Ghost waved a small arm, chubby with the facsimile of grub-fat, and swathes of Void and Soul screamed through their mother's roots, shredding through with wild abandon. Hornet tried to keep matters clean, to cut swiftly and precisely.

At the end of it, when they had opened up a hole big enough for Hollow to duck inside, both stood there, Hornet's blade covered in faintly glowing sap, feeling the first breeze this place had known in ages on their faces. A sweet, herbal scent filled the air, underscored with an earthiness that felt like home, though Hornet knew it wasn't.

“I'll get Hollow,” Hornet said, voice nothing but a whisper as she stepped over the dying, severed roots. It did not feel proper to shout, to speak as if nothing had happened.

She rounded back to the front, finding Hollow exactly as she would expect: sitting, staring blankly out. Not at Dryya, not at the mantis corpses, simply out at the thorns and other flora around them. They didn't react when she got close, sending a chill into her stomach. What if this hurt them? What if they suffered for a simple desire to see their mother again after all these years?

It was too late for that. She tugged their hand, gently, and led them towards the new entrance.

She entered first, turning around and walking backwards, careful so as not to trip over roots, to help guide her sibling in.

And they entered, and rose, head held high, but not too high. Shoulders squared, arm held at 90 degrees with their fist against their stomach, as if they held their nail. Their legs showed no sign of wobbling. One could have forgotten they so much as breathed.

The Pure Vessel had returned, ravaged and broken.

With a rustle and a creak, the White Lady reached for them. Her roots sought them out, short lengths freeing themselves to bring her child closer, to reacquaint herself with them. She felt the hem of their cloak, as awkward and uneven as it was. She patted out their remaining arm, their horns and the crack marring their face, hesitated on the swathes of scarring. “Oh,” she breathed, as a tendril dipped into one of the impalement wounds, as another sought out their other arm and found a roughly healed stump.

They did not lower their head further. Did not kneel like they did for the people of Hallownest. That would be too much, too personal. It would betray their thoughts and feelings.

Ghost sidled up to them, taking up a post by their leg, and they did nothing. Hornet knew she could do anything, shove them, pull on their cloak, swing her needle into their leg, and they'd do nothing.

“Hollow Knight,” the White Lady said, as if her words had all become coated in nail-metal, “Vessel of misjudged purity, be freed from your binds. Long have you worn them, well past their due. That path should not have been yours to take.”

Hollow stood stock-still, as they always would.

Then their shoulders shook.

Their head sunk.

Their arm slackened.

Their knees buckled.

They came crashing down, a heavy thud only muffled by the White Lady's roots. Their head laid limp in her lap, their arm sprawled beside her. Their body twisted as if snapped in two, nothing able to support any weight, legs going one direction, head the other. Their cloak pooled around them, brown and green like the earth, nothing like the silvers and whites they wore at the Palace. They shuddered, but they would never cry. They could never cry.

The shuddering stilled, and Hornet thought they had died right then and there. Overwhelmed.

No.

Put to rest.

The White Lady stroked their horns and their back. Her gaze, already dulled and uncertain, softened. She took their hand and held it close.

Her eyes shut, and she whispered, in the way gods could, whispering the quietest things everyone could hear, “My child, born of Wyrm and Root and Void, would you sit with me?” She hesitated, thought a bit longer. “My children, would you do so?”

Hollow, shaking and unsteady like they were taking their first steps, stood before her and she eased them into what little space remained beside her on the seat. She held them, kept them steady, their arm wrapped around her shoulders, where their head rested at her behest. Ghost hopped up to join them, finding a nook between their mother and sibling.

Hornet turned away. This wasn't her place.

The breeze outside was cool, and though her cloak mitigated most of it, she wrapped her arms around herself as she sat down in the long grass. The Lady's light dappled her face, broken up by the flora. She heard nothing but her own breaths and the breeze; the Vessels would never speak. Dryya was gone.

She should have been happy for the White Lady, and for Ghost and Hollow. The Lady got her children back, both of them, after she had thought them soulless and empty, then gone, one sealed away and one dead. She could mother them like she'd not gotten to before, now that they could be people. Hollow and Ghost no longer had the burden of Hallownest's future on their shoulders. They had a little bit more family. Someone else looking out for them in this strange, lonely world.

She didn't, though.

Instead it felt like something had disemboweled her and was eating her guts. How could it be like this? How could they get their mother back, when she'd had to sit there at Herrah's- Mama's- her mother's side and watch her dissolve into glowing Essence? When she watched Ghost stand up again and had to acknowledge them as her sibling, even with her mother's blood on their hands? What of knowing that had been the right thing? That her mother needed to die?

And all she could do was watch.

And all she could do was try to remember what she could.

Conversations, all melding into each other. A soft, dark face that faded into a pale mask. The sensation of warmth, and movement, entirely divorced from wherever her mother had carried her. Words and a voice that she couldn't fit together any more, simultaneously stark text and all-too-familiar but indistinct muttering.

On the surface, she swore she remembered things. That the stasis had preserved her memory. But, with even the slightest closer look, everything blurred around the edges. Events moved around. It all became distant, like a story.

Through everything, she just wanted Mama back.

She felt her breath hitch and she shoved her hand in her mouth, biting down so hard her jaw hurt. No. No crying. For Hollow and for Ghost. She couldn't cry.

She raged at the tears that flowed free, choked on a frustrated growl. Was her effort for nothing?

A copperiness sprung into her mouth, mixed with salt. She coughed, gagged, bit harder.

Desperate pats on her shoulder made her release her hand. Ghost stared at her, leaning in just enough to lend concern to their eyes. They stood so close she saw the fine filigree of vines holding their mask together.

They took her hand, turning it over and back again. Blue blood, speckled with Void, beaded in the large joint of her thumb. The wounds pulsed, and she almost hissed when Ghost pressed at them, examining what blood got on their hand.

“Leave me be, Ghost,” she told them, trying to cover her face with her other arm. Best they don't see. This wasn't for them. This wasn't for anyone.

But, insistent, they tugged on her arm. In the background the White Lady spoke, sounding confused and almost hurt.

The blood in her mouth tickled at the back of her throat. With a cough, Hornet spit it out into the grass. As the actual blood dripped to the ground, the Void sought new territory, leaving small black stains, an illness within the Queen's gardens. She stood, stepping away from the blemishes, wiping away the tears as best she could.

Ghost waited, watching intently as she tried to make herself presentable. Keep from upsetting Hollow or the White Lady. But as soon as she seemed to be done, they pulled on her arm again, urging her back into the shelter.

“No. Let me go- It's not my place-” Hornet tried to free herself, though she couldn't find the will to put much effort into it.

A root curled around her cheek. It swept to the back of her head, drawing away a tear and bringing her closer. “Did you think yourself discounted?”

She shook her head, gazing up at the White Lady, at Hollow lying against her, face betraying nothing and exhaustion covering up anything their posture may have shown. “But I am not your child.”

“This would be a most cruel time,” the White Lady said, continuing to encourage Hornet closer, while Ghost returned to their spot in her lap, “To break promises made with such grave importance about such sacred matters.”

She brought Hornet to her side, roots holding her with an insistence. Hornet's heart pounded in her head, her breaths remained caged. No. This wasn't- she wasn't-

“Oh, young Hornet,” the White Lady hushed, head inclining towards her. “Stay. To bandage a wound to the heart alone would be most futile.”

Her anger, uncertain where to direct, bubbled up again. “But you- the bindings-”

The White Lady bowed as much as she could, introspective. Hollow folded with her, as if they were one unit. “Child, a wound to the heart and a wound to one's soul, one's truth, are treated very differently. For those dig deeper than one's self.”


	28. Flashback V: The Petals They Weep

_The breeze was kind that day, the light joyful. Alubas floated peacefully, and mosscreeps chirruped. A few winged ones fluttered to the figures who entered the garden. Kept away from the smallest with careful touches, they examined the figures and returned to the flowers, lapping at the nectar._

_Two stood side by side, one more in front, and one behind._

_“What a darling,” the White Lady cooed, watching Herrah the Beast's spiderling toddle along. She had invited the two, along with Dryya as escort of course, to her gardens for a day; it was not far from Deepnest, easy for the spider queen to access. Plus, Herrah found her company much more agreeable than she found the Pale King's._

_It had been a little over a year since the spiderling hatched. The strange hybrid – spider and wyrm and not quite either all at the same time – threw both Herrah and the Pale King for a loop, their newfound parenthood changing so much more than either expected, even with Herrah's preparations and the Pale King's foresight. The White Lady still sometimes woke to her husband's restless pacing, muttering to himself about his baby and how could one spiderling have so much sway over him?_

_By now, though, things had begun to settle._

_The baby grabbed some grass as they walked, ripping off a few ends of blades. Both Herrah and the White Lady clucked at them, Dryya sighing in the background._

_“You happen to need your lawn trimmed?” Herrah asked, dry but amused. She had spent plenty of time weaving her fingers through the grass as it was, though neither the White Lady nor Dryya had said anything about it. Mushrooms were more common in Deepnest, Herrah had said. Grass, flowers... not so much. “They'll do it if you let them try to eat the grass sometimes, I am sure.”_

_The White Lady laughed. “If such services prove necessary, I shall remember the offer.”_

_Her brow furrowed. Where had the spiderling gone? She looked around, seeking out the pale face and dark body. The grass was taller than they, why did they have to insist on getting to walk around, and cry whenever someone tried to carry them? Now they were out of sight. “Where is...?”_

_“Over there,” Herrah said, pointing to a small patch of flowers. The child stood in the middle, stroking the petals and sniffing at them, learning their scents. Their Weaver red cloak caught the Lady's eye, now that she knew where to look for it._

_She exhaled. Oh, good, they were all right. Simply curious. Nowhere near the thorns that deterred intruders, either. “My thanks for putting them in brilliant colors. It helps so much with finding them.”_

_Herrah snorted. She reached out for her child, backing them away from a particularly prickly plant. “Doesn't it? My husband loved bright colors, always said once we got our heir, he'd dress them in the richest silks, all dyed by his hand. Personally, I find it handy with them being so small. How do you manage it with the Pale King? You don't just lose him on accident?”_

_“He makes his presence known.” He did have a way of commanding attention, of standing out in a crowd. “He does glow. Particularly when worked up.”_

_“Oh,” Herrah said, with a bemused, almost smug delight, “I know.”_

_Both of them laughed – the White Lady couldn't have been more glad for it. How much worse this all would have been, if the two had become antagonistic towards each other? With the Pale King's approach to Deepnest, the Lady feared Herrah would be inclined to dislike her. And, deep down, she felt some sharp shard of jealousy, watching him sire a child with another. She could not tell if The Hollow Knight's presence helped or hindered, same with her husband's floundering approach to fatherhood._

_“I really do appreciate it, that you and I can get along,” Herrah said as she watched the spiderling wander off again, the grass rustling around them, small chirps announcing their location every now and again. Their mother watched on, a weight on her shrouded shoulders and in her words. “Even with... everything.” She waved the thought around._

_“As do I.”_

_“Ah! Don't touch that.” Dryya spun in a tight circle, bent over to try and push the child away from her nail. Since when had they gotten all the way over there? “That's not for you.”_

_An angry squeak insisted otherwise._

_“They sit on my back while I train with my needle, they'll be all right,” Herrah said. Still, she went to go help Dryya with separating child and weapon; no need for their guard to be distracted. Not in times like these. Herrah had brought her own needle, for navigating through Deepnest (dirtcarvers do not respect rank, as she said,) but left it in the gazebo at Dryya's insistence. Still, every so often she glanced back or shifted around a weapon that wasn't there._

_With the child successfully redirected, Dryya began to relax. She never left her alert stance, but she didn't have to try and keep her blade out of small hands. The White Lady smiled at her; Dryya constantly accompanied her to the gardens, at times with guests. But Herrah was no Hallownest noble, and when The Hollow Knight was young, they'd practically not moved from the White Lady's side._

_What would it be like, if their very being had not been hollowed out, rendered selfless and pure? Certainly their shell would be as pale as their father's, to the point mortal bugs found it equally lifeless as the Void. They would chase their sibling around, play-wrestle in the grass. Likely let the little thing win. They would tire each other out, and once both had calmed her child would cradle their sibling and walk beside their mother, and their sibling's mother, and join them in conversation._

_And they would laugh._

_It would be the most beautiful sound she had ever heard._

_It was a pointless fantasy; without the infection forcing strange bedfellows – quite literally – the spiderling wouldn't exist. Her husband would remain staunchly opposed to the idea of an heir, though perhaps one day she would win him over._

_She had both the Radiance and the Pale King to thank for her dream coming true – and both of them to blame for twisting it into a horror._

_Oh. The child was trying to eat a flower._

_“That one's not for eating, little one.” The White Lady plucked the flower from the child's hands. So crumpled and sad its petals were. What rich loam it would make, decaying and feeding the flora around it. She dropped its remains by another plant, one she picked a flower from and handed to the spiderling. “This is edible, though.”_

_Her eyes met Herrah's, just looking up from watching her and the spiderling. “Would you like one, too? They are most delicately sweet.”_

_“Catch me while I have nothing to gift back to you? I see how you play your games, White Lady.” Herrah accepted an offered flower nonetheless. Her chelicerae unfolded, bordering her fingers as she sucked on the flower's nectar._

_“You grant me your presence.” The White Lady smiled softly, eyes almost shutting. She eased herself down, sitting where she could easily reach the child, who was currently still chewing on their flower and pulling at the grass with a free hand._

_“Could I not say the same of yourself?” Herrah leaned against the cavern wall, watching Hallownest's queen. She still was not eye level with the White Lady, but the casual strength she held herself with, in the way of someone who had fought so many battles to reach this point, it had an aura of its own. Only recently had she molted and regained two of her arms, after all, torn off in a fight the White Lady hadn't asked about, for Herrah's dignity and for the mystery of it all. Then there was the fact she'd taken on the Pale King and won, the little spiderling being living proof of that._

_Truly, a most intriguing mortal._

_“Ahaaaa!” the spiderling called. Their little arms waved, reaching up for flowers well above their head, curled around a trellis. The flowers stood above Herrah, too, at least so long as the spider queen didn't rear up and hold the child above her head._

_“Do you wish to see them?” the White Lady asked as she strode over. The child didn't give her a glance, so focused they were on the flowers. Their chelicerae stretched as far as they could, one lagging well behind the other._

_She scooped the child up, easily holding them in one hand, the other curved around their front in case they tried to lean over. Which they did, stretching as far as they could while she lifted them up. How lively they were, how vibrant. How much they chirped and moved and explored. They grasped her fingers and tried to lift one to chew on, chelicerae tickling her._

_Their attention returned to the flowers when they came face-to-face with one. It was easily the size of their head, bigger even. The bright petals clashed with the child's cloak, though from the way they pet them, the softness delighted them all the same._

_Curious, they stuck their head in the flower's center, nosing around. Their breaths came in short bursts, chest puffing against the White Lady's hand. They held onto her and leaned as far as they could, trying to pull up to standing to get in closer before she held them out a little further and they settled._

_They took a deep breath-_

_And sneezed. Pollen poofed everywhere, showering the child and their stepmother in yellowish green._

_They paused, processing what had just happened._

_They shrieked in absolute delight._

_Herrah burst out laughing, as did the White Lady. Which just led to the child shrieking louder, the sound turning into giggles that persisted even after the White Lady lowered them against her abdomen. Even Dryya joined in with a low chuckle._

_Exchange between mothers. Herrah cradled her child now, laughed with them and cooed, “Did you have fun? Did you make a mess?” as she wiped their face with a corner of her cloak. They babbled and waved and reached for her, and she played with them, letting them tug on their wrist and tickling them as they giggled and thrashed._

_All three of them, queen and guard alike, watched as Herrah set the child down and they wandered about again. Everything so bright and new and fun for them, how could one not get caught up in it?_

_“I'll miss these moments.”_

_The White Lady turned to Herrah. The spider queen held her head low, contemplative. Her chelicerae worked, and the White Lady could see then the tic's passage from mother to child._

_“You'll be a good mother to them. I can tell.”_

_Dryya backed away until she lurked in the passage between this part of the garden and the one before. The White Lady was grateful; this was a conversation that needed to happen, but one that would dig so deep._

_The child was so blissfully unaware. They had found the edible flower bush and busily sucked nectar as if they were a bee, not a spider-wyrm hybrid._

_“They will need a mother, won't they?” the White Lady stated. She wove her fingers together, long sleeves hiding her hands entirely. Yes, the child needed someone. Herrah had people, she knew; her midwife, serving as the child's caretaker as need be while they were home, and Vespa, slated to train the child, to name them when they were of age._

_(The White Lady and the Pale King were disqualified from naming on account of them not much naming things at all. Not even themselves.)_

_(She vaguely recalled her husband awake later than he ought to be, whispering name ideas to himself. He would posit one, pause, mutter to himself some more. None were quite right for the precious spiderling.)_

_“Considering how distant their father has been when we visited with the Weavers and the other Dreamers... I trust you.” Herrah shook her head, eyes on her child as they chewed on a spent flower's petal. She crossed her arms, not so much in anger or suspicion, but as if she were holding the child. “Maybe if I could find the barest hint of affection in him, I would trust him, too.” Her words grew venomous._

_The White Lady understood Herrah's frustration. Perhaps not in an exact sense – The Hollow Knight needed a lack of affection, and she had seen her dear Wyrm give in to fussing over them so many times, though he always tried to correct himself. But no, it was hard to find his love. He felt it, it burned deep in him, in his very core, and she knew it, but how long had she known him, lived beside him, had the warm pulse of her half of the Kingsoul against her chest? That charm alone told her so much; she had put her energy, her growth into creating a solid foundation for the palace. He gave her his soul._

_“He's trying to stop brooding,” she said. The explanation was all she had._

_“Well, tell him he's being a fool and that next time I bring them over, he's to quit being a stranger to his own child. A pat on the head, at least. Talk back when they babble at him. They love being carried – most days, anyways – and at this rate they're going to outgrow him soon enough, so he ought to do so while he still can. I swear, Lurien's going to have more fond memories of them, and they bit him. Dryya, will you back me on this?” Herrah's eyes locked with those of the Knight._

_Dryya nodded solemnly, but mischief lit her eyes. It was easy enough for the Pale King to dismiss one mortal, but two of them? Queen and Knight, working together? The White Lady could already see him sitting there, his tail curled around the toddler, letting them grab at his horns and flicking his wings when they tried to get those, too, while Herrah and Dryya watched on, chatting to themselves._

_“Pardon if I'm getting too personal, but did he brood for you, too? Or his Hollow Knight?”_

_The White Lady blinked at Herrah's question. It was not so much the personal side of it, but rather that she'd asked at all. Yes, she recalled him practically gluing himself to her side when she unbound herself, spending the nights with him pressed up against her. Or how he'd gotten extra particular while the eggs developed. He had handled it well enough... but nobody was supposed to know about the eggs at all, besides Monomon. The Hollow Knight was not to be a royal child._

_“Come on. The Hollow Knight looks so much like the two of you. Midwife identified the resemblance almost immediately. She thinks they're adorable, by the way.”_

_There was no avoiding it, then. Nobody else had commented on the resemblance – the White Lady often thought out of politeness, or a willingness not to see something so plain and clear. “Yes, they were born of Wyrm and Root. Their purpose is too important for him to give in to brooding, though.”_

_The two said nothing for a long while. A long while for a mortal, or a faster-paced god, and it began to stretch on for the White Lady, too._

_“Mother to mother,” Herrah said, solemn, “I'll do what I can for yours. Not that I think I'll be able to do much.”_

_She nodded. The Hollow Knight should not have needed it. Her child was gone, in truth. There was only a shell, animated by the Void. The stark white face was a mere mockery of who they could have been. She could not help it; she knew she loved them. They were still hers, as this spiderling would one day be, and already was, in a way. So, even if The Hollow Knight needed no such thing as a mother, it was some small relief to know Herrah would look out for them._

_“As I will yours. It is truly a tragedy, our concurrent losses.”_

_Herrah harrumphed. But it was not mean, or spiteful. Bitter and resigned, yes. “The stress of knowing I'll just be gone one day, couldn't tell you when except maybe 'when the Weavers are done with that spell,' it's... a lot. Maybe we'll get lucky, and this infection will fade out on its own. But I don't like looking at a future of eternal nothing and a baby who'll grow up without me.”_

_The baby in question toddled closer, tears starting to prick at their eyes. They grasped at their mother's legs and made a pitiful noise. Herrah cooed, and picked them up, covering them with her cloak and rocking them. The poor thing had run out of energy so fast._

_Herrah's words stung. Not directly, no. But they hurt all the same. “The infection cannot simply fade, I fear.”_

_“I know.” Herrah spoke softly, though the White Lady couldn't tell if it was more for the spiderling's sake or in reverence of the moment. “But it's nice to think about.”_


	29. I Think I Taught You Well

Hornet could traverse Hallownest in a broad, quick pass, in about a day. She usually did not, as that did not leave her much time to hunt, unless she tried to hunt on the way, and that slowed her down anyways.

She knew Ghost was quite quick, too, and from how they dashed and fluttered around they hadn't slowed down at all. They got distracted at times, ducking off around some corner or into a tunnel, only to reemerge a little bit later and run to catch up.

She did not want to entirely blame Hollow for how slow the walk was, but their sibling's pace was often daunted by narrowing paths or the moments she saw their legs begin to shake and she sat them down.

“I know it's frustrating,” she told them as they tried to get up and she tried to get them to sit and rest on the way through Greenpath, “But must I remind you that you threw yourself into the Abyss? While you were rebuilding your strength anyways?”

Honestly, she was happy to see them resisting her, after the fight was said and done. Even if, at this rate, they were going to be camping at least once on their walk through Hallownest. Which she did not mind, and she doubted Ghost minded, but Hollow had been raised in the White Palace and she knew the sensibilities at the palace did not include sleeping in the dirt.

Unless you were Ogrim.

Ghost led the way from Greenpath, climbing up, up, until the trio emerged into the frigid wind blowing through the King's Pass. The Howling Cliffs more than earned their name, blowing away anything Hornet might have tried to say, biting at her limbs, horns, everything that was exposed and then through her cloak to gnaw on her torso, too. Its claws dug into her consciousness and pulled, the cold threatening to solidify and freeze it.

She scowled and pressed on, ignoring the numbness creeping at her finger and toetips. She couldn't get weak here. She could withstand the cold and wind of the Kingdom's Edge, she could deal with this, too.

Father lied, she told herself, thinking of Iselda and Cornifer, of Ze'mer, of her old mentor's struggle to remember her and the dazed, confused bugs she sometimes heard of, back when Hallownest was vibrant and attractive to more than scavengers. She'd not become some mindless, lost thing. She couldn't, she had duties to attend to.

Still, she appreciated the chance to simply follow Ghost's bright mask and sometimes stop to help lift Hollow up to an outcropping of rocks they couldn't quite reach with one arm and half their body twisted under said outcropping just to fit.

She didn't go out to the Howling Cliffs that often. What was there? A grave, vengeflies, and tiktiks. If anyone wanted to come into Hallownest, that was their problem. If they were out here, they were not under her jurisdiction. Only that of the wastes.

Like she was now.

She found herself gripping the tail end of Hollow's cloak as they followed Ghost through a cliffside cave. Keeping the cloak off the ground, yes. It wouldn't do to have more dirt and dust to wash off it than necessary. They only had the one. They needed more. Maybe they could figure that out when they returned to Deepnest.

It wasn't until Hollow got up, hunched but standing, that she saw the house. A sharp gate, formed of nails bound together with strips of black cloth, barred the entrance for anyone but someone Ghost's height (or herself, if she crawled on her belly). Ghost waved reassuringly to their siblings and ducked inside, the pattering of their feet growing faint.

Hollow flumped to the ground, their cloak tangling around them. Hornet did the same, drawing in a deep sigh. She backed against Hollow, leaning against their side. Sure, it was cool, but it was a cold she could tolerate far better than the bitterness outside. Most of the wind didn't make it this deep in the cave, thankfully, leaving it strangely quiet even if it wasn't much warmer.

Which meant she could hear some of what happened inside.

“My pupil!” a warm voice said. They didn't strike her as shouting, not in the moment, but definitely a naturally loud person. Yet the words faded into a friendly mush, unintelligible from where she sat.

She was debating whether to try and squeeze between Hollow and the cave wall when the voice grew nearer, and clearer, alongside footsteps much heavier than Little Ghost's.

“What's outside that you are so desperate for? Your stoicism is incredible, what brings you to break it?”

With a groan and a rattle, the gate raised. Ghost strode out first, making their way right to their siblings.

A tall, broad figure in an iconic red headband followed them. A Nailmaster. Some had survived Hallownest's fall? Ghost had trained under them? She should not have been surprised, the Vessel had destroyed a god, what could they not do if they set their mind to it?

The Nailmaster's eyes lit up at the sight of the siblings. Ghost huddled between Hollow and Hornet, turning around in the previously-nonexistent gap between them to poke their head out and stare up at the Nailmaster.

“You brought friends to visit? To visit me?” the Nailmaster sounded at the brink of tears of joy, a loving warble in his voice. He stood before Hornet and Hollow in an instant, offering a hand to each of them. “Hello! I am Nailmaster Mato. I presume you already know my pupil here. Quiet sort, aren't they?”

Hornet took Mato's hand and found herself pulled to her feet. She blinked, slowly pulling her hand out of his grip. He wasn't as warm as Grimm, but Grimm was almost scorching. Mato had the warmth of liveliness.

He pulled Hollow up with nary a grunt, though he spent the entire time walking back into the house reassuring them that of course they could get through the door. It might just take some care. He ushered Ghost and Hornet in ahead of him before doubling back to help Hollow, shoving the gate up as high as it could go as they squeezed inside.

“If you're going to bring your friends around more, my pupil, I think I'll need to renovate my doors!” Mato said as he guided Hollow through the second door leading from the hallway into the home proper. They had to sort of hop on their hand and knees, and clunked their head on the doorframe at least once, making Mato wince. The Nailmaster was hardly a short bug, but the doors were already a little short for him (Hornet caught a few dents and scuffs in the wood, and on his frontmost horn), likely in an attempt to preserve warmth.

It did a decent job; a chill remained in the air, enough to keep Hornet huddled up after the frigidness outside, but it was livable.

“Oh? Are you cold?” A heavy cloak dropped onto Hornet, catching her horns and draping over her. Longer than she was tall, it provided plenty of material for her to pull tight, the thick fabric and furred ruff slightly warm already. Mato continued past, towards a pile of chopped logs and firestarter. “I'll get a fire going, how does that sound? And some tea! I am afraid you caught me meditating – I like to keep the house cool when I do so, I find it helps hone my mind by giving it a challenge.”

Ghost plopped down by the fireplace, crossing their short legs as much as they could. Hollow sat beside them, and Hornet joined them on their other side. As soon as she did Ghost burrowed under Mato's cloak, carefully not touching her but wrapping up in as much fabric as they could. Were they, cold, too? What of Hollow? They seemed fine, but a master at faking being fine like Hollow would hardly be deterred by some wind and dust.

“What brings you to be acquainted with my pupil?” Mato asked as he loaded wood and tinder into a stove. He drew a flint and steel, heavy strikes driving sparks into the nest of firestarter. “I am afraid my own story is very simple – they found me up here, and I saw such determination in them! It's been an honor to teach them.”

Hornet ran her fingers through the cloak's ruff. Could she admit she watched Ghost from a distance before trying to kill them, and that was their initial introduction? What of Hollow, who had been a fixture of her early life?

“We're siblings,” she said at last. It was simple. True. Covered both Ghost and Hollow, despite the incredibly disparate ways she had met them.

“Siblings!” Mato laughed, waving his flint at Ghost. “You never mentioned siblings!”

Ghost stared at him, unfazed.

“They cannot speak,” Hornet explained.

The fire crackled to life, with a few encouraging puffs from Mato bringing it from a smolder to a growing flame. He shut the stove door and adjusted the flue, peering down to check the fire again before going to retrieve a teakettle from a cluttered countertop. The massive headplate leaning against the counter didn't help the messiness; just how many giant beasts had Mato slain in his time? “Oh,” he said, “I figured as such. My brothers and I, we always had something to say while we trained. I figured there wasn't much point in asking whether it was muteness or a vow of silence.”

He set the teakettle on the stove and returned to the counter, items clacking and shuffling as he found mugs and tea. “Does everyone want some?”

Ghost cocked their head. Hollow listed forwards, though Hornet wasn't sure if they wanted tea or were about to fall over and onto the stove. She tugged their cloak in case they were going to fall and their gaze wandered over to Mato, so she answered, “Yes, please. And thank you, for the shelter and tea.”

“Oh of course!” Mato chuckled, the force of his laugh scattering a smattering of tea leaves. “I'm always happy to see visitors. Though...” He paused, tapping his teaspoon against the rim of a mug. “I didn't expect siblings, my pupil.”

Ghost wrapped up tighter in the cloak.

“Maybe I should explain. When they came to me, and I trained them, I felt this incredible bond! I knew it was important – unbreakable, even. I asked if they would let me call them my child, and they've come back since then, so I suppose the offer wasn't too presumptuous!”

Looking at Ghost... They did seem quite cozy. Perhaps it was the oversized cloak they cuddled up in, or the fire's warmth making Hornet feel more at ease, but they seemed calm. Their shoulders were lax, they idly twitched a foot every now and then, and watched Mato make tea with mild interest. So different from how she had huddled in a tight ball, or how Hollow stared blankly at the wall.

“Though, if they're my child, and you're their siblings... Are we, too, family? I know this may be a bit much, but I would hate for you to feel left out or uncared for.”

It was... a logical conclusion, she guessed. But at the same time, what would happen if she agreed to his sentiment?

She had many caretakers over her life. Herrah. Vespa. The White Lady. Midwife. The Pale King. Almost all of them gone, or just now seeing her again. She had gone, lived independently. Survived. Took upon herself duties that others shirked – like her father. She didn't need someone, caretaker or otherwise.

Did Ghost? They'd not had anyone, as far as she knew. They could get along just fine, same as her. Yet they had brought her and Hollow to this Nailmaster's house, with no ulterior motive she could discern. They were simply content to be here. Though she had never found them to have much of an ulterior motive at all, in the occasions they met.

Hollow, well, they were full grown. They needed physical help, yes, but-

But they needed her, too. Someone who could wake them from nightmares, who could discern their expressions. Someone they knew in this world they'd been left out of.

Did she need them back?

She couldn't have brought Ghost back without them. They had charmed their way into the Troupe Master's heart.

Though, Grimm had tried to take care of her, too. As did Cornifer and Iselda, lavishing such attention on the siblings. She ought to bring her siblings to visit them, too.

Would having someone else claim fatherhood be good for Hollow? Their nickname of the King's Shadow didn't come without some merit; look at the lengths they had gone to in utter devotion to their father, the scars they had gained in the effort. What could Mato do for them?

The teakettle whistled, and Mato retrieved it, the water burbling as he poured it out in the mugs. One by one, he set them in front of the siblings, before sitting with them, his own mug held firmly in both hands. “You don't have to answer just now if you don't want to. Oh, watch out, that's hot.”

Ghost had lifted their mug under their mask and was about to presumably take a sip when Mato's warning interrupted them. Strangely enough, Hornet didn't see any flare of chelicerae when they tried to drink; she could usually fit hers in mugs, and Hollow had to reach theirs out to the side when they drank. She knew that, back when she was young, she'd had some minor birth defect that lasted through a number of molts, where her chelicerae had not properly separated from the rest of her shell. Did Ghost have it, too, or were Vessels just like that? Had they collectively inherited something from the Pale King's side? Did he know he'd left that in, when he created his new body? Seemed like an oversight to her.

They waited, watching, and only tried to sip again after the others began drinking their tea. Hollow served as a particular source of apparent fascination. Hornet herself couldn't help but puzzle as Ghost drank up their tea; it was plenty bitter, and maybe a little stale (not unreasonable, considering Hallownest's situation and Mato's isolation), but they didn't seem to care at all.

Despite all that, though, the tea's warmth filled her, multiplying the fire's growing strength. What was the flavor, really, compared to the fact she drunk it by a fire, knowing her siblings were safe and sound and the company they kept wouldn't hurt them?

She felt something shift on her back and Mato's cloak fell off as Ghost rolled up in it, cushioned by fabric and fluff. She frowned at them, missing the cloak's weight on principle; it was getting to be plenty warm by now, but they had taken it.

Mato chuckled at his pupil, now resembling some sort of fuzzy slug or snail, with their arms poking out so they could grab their mug. But his eyes ultimately settled on Hornet's needle, well aware of it and examining the craftsmanship in particular. “That weapon you have, the only ones I know to wield those are the spiders. Have you trained among them?”

“I myself am half-spider. So yes.” Hornet cradled her drink, eyeing the Nailmaster. She hadn't exactly missed his greatnail, either, and she knew the signs of a well-used but also well-cared for blade.

His eyes brightened. “You are! That would explain the red cloak, wouldn't it? Funny, that your siblings don't wear the same. As it stands, would you be at all interested in sparring at some point? I've not had the chance to face a needle-wielder in the longest time.”

Hornet exhaled, glad for the change in topic. Getting even the slightest bit deeper into her and her siblings' parentage would get... messy, quick, at best. Disastrous, even. She could not tell if Mato did not recognize The Hollow Knight, or did not care, and did not want to chance the revelation being unpleasant. “At some point, perhaps.”

Mato, satisfied, turned to Ghost. “Speaking of, would you be interested in the same, my pupil? I would love to see how your skills have grown since we last met?”

They held their hands out. No nail.

“Ah. Most unfortunate. Where did it go? Oh! And you, my tall friend, I see no nail on you. Is it misplaced as well, or are you a spellcasting sort?”

While Ghost gestured in the general direction of the Crossroads, Hollow stiffened. Their posture did not change much, but Hornet saw it.

As did, much to her surprise, Mato. His gaze darkened, concern welling up, watching Hollow as they sipped their tea and acted as if nothing had changed. “Did I misstep? I am sorry, my friend.”

Hollow bowed their head. Their hand curled around the hilt of a nail still lost in the Temple's depths, cracked and smeared with Void and infection.

“Hm. Well, if you do seek to train again... I would love to offer you use of my nail, but I do not think it is weighted right for you. You seem the sort who needs something more akin to your siblings' weapons in proportion to yourself.”

Mato sat up suddenly, setting his mug down to jog off into a back room. Things clacked and clattered, and at one point Hornet heard the distinct thunk of something hitting carapace and Mato swearing.

But he returned, proud, wielding a staff. He held it out to Hollow, beaming as they moved their now-empty mug aside, took the weapon, and stood. It was far too short to serve as a staff for them, but it was nearly the same length as their nail had been. As they returned to their ready stance, careful not to swing the staff into Hornet's head as they settled it in their preferred reverse grip, it was hard to imagine it as anything else but their signature nail.

Mato circled around them, rubbing his chin. “What an interesting grip... Much unlike anything I've seen before. I don't know if my Nail Art would translate well to it, but Sheo gave me his staff, too. Let me go get it.”

And that was how, in a matter of minutes, Ghost and Hornet found themselves sitting against the wall, the fire crackling away beside them, Mato and Hollow standing in the middle of the room, sizing each other up.

Mato struck first, an overhead swing.

Hollow blocked it and twisted. Mato's firm grip kept the staff in his hands and soon Hollow had to dodge a jab aimed for their abdomen.

They danced around each other, their determination, their focus illuminated by the firelight. When they swung, it came with force and commitment. Nailmaster and Knight took no mercy on each other.

Hollow landed a blow first, swiping Mato in the leg. He grunted and compensated, turning to the side and reaffirming his weight on the ground.

Without hesitation, he struck back, swinging up to tag Hollow in the hip.

They threw their weight at him in a much shorter range version of the charge they once taught Hornet. Mato darted past and spun around, almost connecting before they parried him again.

They swung, heavy and wild, staffs crashing together as Mato blocked. He forced them up and off, sending them reeling with a hearty shove.

One, two, three hits against their abdomen before they recovered, sweeping at his side. He knocked their staff away, their grip almost lost.

He whirled around in a blur, staff out, forcing Hollow to back up. It bought them just enough time to adjust their grip.

They tried to get him as he spun. They jabbed at him, aiming for his unprotected abdomen.

Well, it was unprotected. He flipped his staff perpendicular just in time, catching Hollow's again and this time ripping it free.

He slowed to a stop, eyeing Hollow before tossing the staff back to them. They caught it, fumbled, but swung at him as if they hadn't.

They kept going. They kept going well beyond what Hornet thought Hollow's limit for activity had been, especially with all the walking and climbing they'd done that day. They faltered, but refused to back down, though Mato slowed as their legs shook and their swings grew less precise.

Mato knocked their staff free again with a sharp blow that flew close to their face. Their staff clattered against the back wall, beyond either's reach.

Immediately Hollow faced sideways, cloak flowing away from their injured side as-

As they stared down at Mato, bracing with his staff, unsure of what to expect. What had their plan been? Hornet knew that had been their favored arm for spellcasting, the Void-black shell often glowing white as they focused Soul into a spray of daggers, or dissolved the entire thing into lashing tentacles.

They wobbled and, with all the grace of an angry gruz mother, sat down. The fight was over.

Mato, his huffs and puffs already evening out, bowed to them, and got a respectful nod back. “Incredible- an incredible display, my friend. It must run in the family, then, from what I have seen with my pupil.”

Ghost leaned over, pointedly staring at Hornet, who glared back. She wasn't here to fight for their amusement. A sparring match did sound tempting, though. Ghost had been her last challenging opponent.

She drew her needle and, with a few tugs, tested how well she had tied on the spool of thread on her hip. Mato perked up, setting his staff aside in anticipation.

First, though, Hollow needed to not be in the middle of things. They didn't need much coaxing to move, though they certainly accepted the second cup of tea Mato made them, even if Ghost kept trying to climb up them to get a sip before Mato made a second cup of their own, too.

She eyed him, and his stance, as he retrieved his greatnail. He was tough, perhaps too much so. Reliant on great strength to take down an opponent. Keeping out of range and darting in and out would be to her advantage, she bet. Though he would know that; she knew he had to be doing the same sort of analysis as he stepped up to her.

They bowed to each other.

He made the first move and she dodged under it, though she felt the rush as his nail breezed between her horns. She went for his legs, but Hollow had primed him to watch for that, and he easily evaded her.

Another swing. She leaped clear of it, landing on the wall. Her heart pounded through her head as she climbed, as naturally as if it were webbing.

In a real fight, she'd have thrown traps out. Attempted to trip him in razors and wire. Instead she jumped again, somersaulting in the air.

She landed facing him and threw her needle.

He parried it, sending it to a ground. She reeled it in as he charged, barely rolling out of the way in time.

She swung to parry a downward strike, deflecting the blade from her chest. She needed time. She needed distance.

A jump. Her cloak flared, and she scoured the air around her with thread, glowing white and threatening to cut any who touched it. Mato stayed clear, taking the time to catch his breath.

She fell, brandishing her needle.

They charged simultaneously. Instinct and training prevented a collision, but her cloak brushed his armor on the way past.

Both tried to tag each other in the back. Neither succeeded.

Hornet sprung onto the wall again, launching herself at him.

His block flung her towards Ghost, seamlessly transitioning into a whirlwind of nail-metal.

She watched, waited.

As soon as he slowed, she threw her needle in again, ready to pull back as soon as she felt contact.

The needle's tip clanged against armor and she reeled it into her grasp again.

Mato, huffing, touched his side. “Good work! My pupil, you really ought to bring your siblings more often. Wonderful company. All of you.”

They stayed overnight, at Mato's request. It had already been getting to evening when they arrived, and he'd not have them going out into the cold. Not when he'd already gotten the house warmed up, and he'd have dinner on the table soon enough, could Ghost help him prep a few things?

It wasn't quite like being home in the den. The food was different, the wind's cry nothing like Deepnest's skittering and rumbling, Weavers' webs replaced with trophies from successful hunts. It was warm, though, and Mato's presence comforted her in a way that felt familiar, but she couldn't place with enough certainty to put words to it.

Oh, and she'd never had siblings in Deepnest. When Mato piled a few blankets for them, bade them goodnight, and went to sleep in his own bed, a hardy and entirely undecorated thing, she didn't know what to do. When she and Hollow camped with the Troupe, they'd huddled out of necessity. She had her own room back home.

But Hornet found herself sitting beside her siblings, staring at the fireplace as the warm reds, oranges, and yellows licked across the stove's blackened front, casting shadows all around the dark and quiet house. Hollow had curled up around Ghost, like a wrapper around a piece of candy.

Maybe she shouldn't join them. She took one of the blankets and dragged it near the stove's side. She set her needle in arm's reach and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, settling down on the hard floor.

She had just enough awareness to realize she was falling asleep when the day overcame her.


	30. Kill The Lights

Morning brought about breakfast, and goodbyes, and promises to visit again soon. It also brought the winding trek down from the cliffs through the pass, and into Dirtmouth proper. Ghost took the long drop without a problem, but Hornet had almost panicked when Hollow hit the ground and crumpled.

They were fine, in the end, but she more than sufficiently expressed her desire for them not to do that.

The first stop was the Troupe. It had to be the Troupe, all set up right outside town. Hollow stood taller as they approached, and Ghost picked up their pace.

Grimmchild, of course, greeted them with an excited shriek. Their small, dark form flew free from a pole they'd been hanging off of and shot towards them. Behind them, Troupe members shouted, some ducking before they could get barreled over by their future god. As they cackled, sparks trailed from their mouth.

Ghost held their arms open, only to watch as Grimmchild tucked in their wings and whipped through Hollow's horns.

The disappointment did not last long; Grimmchild wheeled around to flutter beside their friend, chirping and rubbing their cheek against Ghost's. The Vessel patted their head, nuzzling back. When Grimmchild flew up and rested on Hollow's shoulder, Ghost clambered up beside them, perched on Hollow's thin shoulders like it was a bench.

“You can remove them if they're going to be a problem,” Hornet told Hollow. She wasn't sure if her sibling needed the instruction, but just in case.

They just looked at her and strode on for the tents.

The Troupe proved hard at work. Props and backdrops had been pulled out and the bugs – and Grimmkin – were busy repainting and repairing them. Some moved set pieces around, testing configurations. A couple mantises stood still as costumers tweaked their outfits, carefully trimming away threads that had gotten frayed and now trailed towards the ground.

In the middle of it all sat Grimm, draped over the back of a chair Brumm had to hold down, lest the Troupe Master's weight tip it. He pointed at different troupe members, more of coughing out orders than calling them, though on occasions he startled everyone with a sharp bark.

A few people nodded at the trio, but Brumm was the first to really acknowledge them. His eyes drifted to Hornet, all the way up to Hollow, and then to Ghost and Grimmchild, sitting on Hollow's shoulder.

Hornet could see him squinting, behind his mask. She didn't know what to tell him. He'd have to process the situation on his own.

“Can someone pull out the- yes, that one right there, and before you ask I know it got a maintenance check recently.” Grimm waved at what looked to be a massive head plate, artistically cracked and weathered.

“Nyah!”

“Oh, child, come here.” Grimm reached up, curling his fingers right above his head. Grimmchild glided down from their perch to rest between their father's horns, nuzzling his hand and purring as he scratched their head. Slowly so as not to disturb his child, Grimm turned around, not exactly sitting properly in his chair but Brumm didn't have to hold it down any more.

He couldn't bow, not both sitting and with Grimmchild perched on his head, but he gave the trio a deep nod. Much like Brumm, he slowly came to notice Ghost, with a slow blink and his mouth splitting into a craggy grin.

“One of the god-siblings ascends, I see. Stolen my sister's realm, have we? Quite the combination, Void and Dream. Will you cloak the people's hopes and ambitions with shadow? Or is that exactly what a land so vulnerable needs? Or, perhaps, do they need what my sister ruled now more than ever?” Just like that, he acted like what Hornet presumed was his normal, from what she had seen of him. 

“You're busy,” Hornet noted, giving pointed looks to the people running about. It almost reminded her of the Hive, except the instructions were more vocal here.

Brumm sighed and muttered, “Hello?”

Grimm scoffed and Hornet's words caught in her throat. The god – vessel – had foregone a basic greeting first. It wasn't her fault.

“Oh, Brumm, what am I to do if not be-” He draped further in the chair, exaggerating his pose. When the Grimmchild crawled up his face, he plucked them off and settled them on his chest, stroking their head. “Exquisitely dramatic?”

“Be polite.”

“Brumm! There's guests!” Grimm complained, voice breaking into a harsh whisper again. He gave his second-in-command a most pitiful look, hugging his child close as if he had offended them, too. Which, perhaps he had, in a way? He lolled his head back, casting a sorry gaze on the siblings. “My most sincere apologies. Emotions run high in times like these.”

Divine popped up from behind the chair, a tally-covered tablet cradled in her arm. “He's trying to run the place like none of us know what we're doing!”

“It's my last show, I'd much like it to go right!” He waved her away, grumbling, before he turned back to the siblings. “Such a thing as that, no detail shall go without touching up.”

As much as it was in front of her face, it hit to the gut yet again: he was dying. Actively dying, right before Hornet's eyes. What wasn't a preparation for his death, in some form?

“Thinking of,” he gestured towards Ghost, who hadn't moved a bit from their perch. “The Ritual. It is imperative it continue, as my Troupe finds me to be worsening rapidly. Its conclusion will have to wait for... four more days, though. At least.”

He gave Grimmchild a scratch under one of their horns. “What of you? Are you making good friends? Are you having fun? How's my bright spark been? You like them all, don't you? Yes, that's a sweet little happy face. Such friends to make.”

The cooing just about made Hornet's stomach turn. “Is there anything you need of us?”

Grimm hummed, almost melting into the chair in total obliviousness to the bitter air around him. Though, considering how warm he ran, Hornet figured this shouldn't be a surprise. “It would be a treat if you could attend the show. It's not easy to drum up an audience, though some Grimmkin left fliers in that city below. What possessed your father to build it under a lake?”

“The show's in four days?” She couldn't speak to her father's motivations for the City of Tears. It had been established well before her birth, or that of anyone in Hallownest besides the gods. But she could keep to more pertinent matters. Like how a show might be good for her siblings. At the very least, it would give Hollow another excuse to be out and interact with other people. Hopefully in a less stressful setting than their memorial statue.

How foolish she'd been, thinking they'd be okay seeing it.

“Yes, now the show starts in the evening, I fear we'd be unable to accommodate guests at that time, or I would invite you to stay beforehand if you showed up early. Don't go about missing it, either, it's one night and one night only.” Grimm laughed to himself while Brumm idly rubbed his shoulder.

Divine leaned out to stare at the trio again, tapping a claw against her tablet. “I think only Hollow's old enough to come to the afterparty, though.”

“Ah! A most legendary event! But only done after this one's bedtime.” Grimm patted Grimmchild's head. “Don't go telling your parents about it, either.”

Well, for one, the Pale King was long gone and the White Lady was bound in a cage of her own making. For two, Hornet wasn't that much younger than Hollow, in the grand scheme of things. Ghost was the same age as they, though the smaller Vessel wasn't protesting the matter.

Divine piped up again. “Ticket prices are-”

“-Not a concern for they who lit the torch.” Grimm nodded at Hornet and Hollow. “And family, of course.”

Brumm had shut his eyes, content to ignore both, but Divine carried on as if he wasn't there at all. “How are you planning on paying for this big event, then?”

Grimm huffed. “As if I hadn't been saving my entire life for this.”

“Trying to save.”

“Oh, hush.” Grimm waved her and then the siblings off. “Pardon how short I must cut this, but preparations are underway and backstage is as busy as could be.”

That, she could understand and appreciate. Hornet didn't want to be in the middle of all the Troupe's running around and practicing their dramatics. Ghost scanned the events one last time as she gave Grimm a nod and walked off, Hollow trailing after her. It must have been quite the new thing for them. Though, anything that wasn't survival seemed to be a revelation.

They really deserved to go to the show. Hornet sighed; as uncertain as she was about Grimm, and his purpose here, he was something different for the Vessels, he encouraged Hollow at least to act on their own, and she couldn't deny that her siblings had grown fond of Grimmchild. It would be fun. They'd not done fun things. Not like this.

What did her siblings like? What made them happy? Besides splash fights and dancing with troupe masters come to feed off the kingdom's death?

Elderbug tensed some as they approached, but stood his ground. From all the dust in his cloak, he might as well have been a fixture of the landscape, anyways. He watched, gape-mouthed, as Little Ghost climbed down from Hollow's shoulder to stand before him.

“O- oh. Little wanderer, hello. I thought you were gone...?” He lifted their chin a little, turning their head the slightest bit in search of wounds. He didn't find any, and his hand retreated under his cloak again.

They stared at him. That was it. Didn't have anything to do, nothing to show him. Anything they had to demonstrate was right before him, wasn't it? They were there, he could feel them, they were physically present. As if they'd just been on a particularly long trek through the kingdom below. Nothing new, not for them; they had yet to see the City of Tears, and the survivors who had gathered.

“It is good to have you back. It's so common for people to fall prey to the worst down there.” Elderbug nodded, with a tired wisdom. Hornet knew, approximately, what he must have seen; she had found corpses, and fended off more aggressive sorts, herself. How long had he been sitting here, watching person after person go down the well and not come back? As long as she?

A door creaked open. Familiar voices called out, and Iselda and Cornifer ran outside to greet the party, pulling the shop's door shut behind them.

Tears pricked at both of the couple's eyes as they swept up Ghost, then the rest of the siblings, in a hug. Hornet jolted at the sudden embrace, slowly reminding herself the proper thing was to return it. Cornifer and Iselda had been kind to them, she could at least return a hug. It helped, she figured, to have Hollow shadowing them all, bent over with their cheek beside Iselda's. Hollow, she could handle. She'd known them.

When the hug broke apart, Ghost stayed put in Cornifer's arms, their limbs all tucked in, head pressed into his side. Cornifer readjusted the weight, shifting most of it to his hip, but he seemed to take no issue with their presence, as much as Hornet felt she ought to tell them to get off.

“You- they're-” Iselda's eyes locked on Ghost, her gestures fading and failing each time she tried to make them.

Elderbug nodded in total understanding.

Hornet took a deep breath. How much information ought she give up? Would the truth set them at a distance, take away all this love and affection her siblings needed? “It's complicated.”

“Well, I imagine!” Cornifer laughed, out of surprise and disbelief. He cradled Ghost's head with one hand like they were a little grub, not a god in their own right who'd killed another god, and thanks to the King's Brand, technically the rightful ruler of the realm.

Ghost shrugged their cloak open, tapping at the charm on their chest. Hornet knew, from having carried them out of their father's grave, that their shell didn't make nearly so clacky sounds. That had to be the charm.

It did get the others' attention, Cornifer and Iselda and Elderbug all straining and crowding to get a look all at once.

“Oh, that looks painful,” Elderbug muttered.

“It's just lodged in there? What is it? Are you okay?” Iselda asked.

“They seem all right.” Cornifer adjusted Ghost so he could see the charm better.

That's when he started to squint, and lean in. Slowly, so did Iselda and Elderbug. Hollow even followed suit, leaning in over everyone's heads.

“What are those lines?”

“It looks like it's carved into their shell.”

“Is it glowing?”

Hornet's stomach went cold. The King's Brand. They'd found it, Ghost had showed them it, there was no avoiding it. At least, no denying their connection to the king. How could she explain it? They were chosen for something, the brand somehow bound them to a task? No, that wouldn't explain Hollow, and would completely turn her siblings' stories around. That it was merely a magic tattoo? No, how would they have gotten it in the first place?

“I've seen that symbol,” Cornifer said, and Hornet knew she couldn't avoid it in the least. “It's all over Hallownest, especially places like the City of Tears. I spoke with the relic keeper about it, older fellow named Lemm, and he said it appeared to be the symbol of the king. He even showed me an idol in the same shape. How did you get such a thing?”

Ghost simply patted the symbol.

“It's...” Hornet sighed, crossing her arms. She couldn't find it in herself to meet her eyes. They wouldn't get violent, she was sure, but she just couldn't. She didn't want to see their faces. What they'd think, getting the full story.

“Complicated?” Cornifer suggested.

“He was our father.” The words wouldn't stay in. “My siblings, they were born of Wyrm and Root, myself of Wyrm and Beast. He raised Hollow and I-” she added 'mostly Hollow' under her breath- “And left Ghost for dead, along with countless others. We were all part of a plan to save Hallownest, in our ways.”

It went quiet. So, painfully quiet. She couldn't even hear a breath.

She reached out, touched the back of Hollow's hand. They trembled, slightly, and she waited for them to fall, to collapse in sorrow of their failure. Of the destiny they couldn't fulfill, and everything that had been lost for it. Their entire life, for nothing, except to wait for their more successful sibling to do the job they'd been born, killed, and raised for.

Iselda stepped forwards, one hand hesitating above Hornet's shoulder, the other reaching for Hollow's face. “Is that why you were there, by that temple? That's what took your arm, isn't it? This plan?”

Hollow could only bow their head, ducking away from Iselda's hand. Over with Cornifer and now Elderbug, Ghost hid their face, showing no signs of listening to anything the other bugs had to say to them.

“Of course, when royalty does visit this dusty old place, I don't recognize them,” Elderbug said. He scratched his chin. “Though I thought the designs in the stag station were simply something decorative.”

“I'd ask if holding the – the heir? - was improper, but I don't think they want to go anywhere.” Cornifer had to move Ghost again, shifting them to his other hip.

Holding the monarch was, in fact, improper. Unless you were the White Lady, and Hornet had only ever seen her pick up the Pale King when she thought they were alone, or at least didn't care if anyone witnessed while she showered him with kisses faster than he could return them.

Iselda, less fussed about such things than her husband and neighbor, frowned. She pointed to each of the siblings in turn, mumbling to herself.

“...All of you?” she said at last.

With Ghost hiding as best they could, Hollow bowed with shame, and both of them mute, it fell to Hornet to answer. “All of us were born to further his goals and stop the infection. There was no love in it.”

That is when Hollow's knees buckled. They didn't fall, not completely. But it was like someone had struck them, and as they tried to get up their hand found Hornet's shoulder and squeezed. The pressure burned through her back, threatening to pop open some of the plates.

“Hey, hey!” Iselda ducked under them, wrapping her arms around their waist and slowly pushing them upright, freeing Hornet from their grasp. “That's not right. Hornet, are you okay?”

She nodded; she would be fine, though the pain lingered and stung and ached even after Hollow let go to grasp Iselda for support. What had they done that for? Did they not care what the Pale King had done? How miserable he had left them, and Hallownest as a whole? He hadn't loved them. He hadn't loved any of them.

But they got up, clenching their fist tight. They stared at her, way down, in a way she'd never seen them do to anyone or anything. Even their tired glower at Ghost after getting splashed didn't compare. It made her feel tiny again, a child new to the palace still getting used to her sibling's looming presence. It made her want to back down, to apologize, and do everything she, as Princess of Deepnest and survivor and protector of Hallownest, had learned not to do.

The two stared at each other, caught without either willing to act. Hornet's hands itched for her needle. Hollow's shook, clenched so tight Hornet could hear their carapace scraping with every twitch.

They stormed off. Her stoic, almost expressionless sibling stormed off, Void lashing through their mask. Their cloak whipped behind them and they strode, slow but steady, away from town. Towards the well. Towards the Temple.

Ghost wiggled out of Cornifer's arms, fading into shadow just like Hollow did, melting into a dark form with more limbs and more glowing bright eyes and a face entirely unlike theirs for a brief moment before and after disappearing.

“I need to go,” Hornet said, numbly, and ran after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee! Hollow seems to be a lil' upset, hmm?
> 
> I believe I also need to do more brushing up on my fight scene skills, judging from last chapter. But hey, I got spots to do that. Not here, necessarily. Other stories.
> 
> Speaking of, either this or next week, I'm going to run out of buffer. I'm just about done with the chapter I am working on, but I don't think I'll be able to write up another two all that fast. Once I'm out, I'll probably see about updating every now and again, but put the story on pause to build up again, likely at least through the rest of November (been meeting word count on NaNoWriMo, but not giving myself much buffer there, either) and possibly through part of December if I see about writing up a short story to submit for an anthology.
> 
> Right now, I got one of the anchor scenes where I actually know what I want to do down. I have another couple coming up, and one further out. The in-between is a little vague, though. Are there any particular characters y'all would like to see come up again if I get a chance? Any situations to check in on, like the reparations in the City of Tears? I can't guarantee I'll add everything in, but can't hurt to gauge interest if I need to space things out.


	31. You Think You Haven't Sinned

The low, rasping gasps cut short, and sputtered, and for a moment Seer thought her charge would pass away.

A few coughs, a deep breath, from the nest of cushions. A blanket, tucked around the ailing form, obscured all but the eyes and crown.

The Radiance had finally woken up.

Seer already had tea handy. She'd poured the cup for herself, hadn't even picked it up yet, but so be it if it was for someone else instead. She lifted it to the dark patch of the Radiance's face, whispered for her to be calm, be steady, as she struggled to sit up and sip the drink. She pulled off the latter, eventually, once she'd given up on the former, and her eyes just about shut again.

Seer wished to stroke her head like she were a sick caterpillar instead of a goddess dethroned. How different she looked, though, without her incredible light. Yes, her physical form was mostly the same, gray wings and a thick body coated in fluff the color of dreams, a tri-point crown and brilliant eyes in a deep dark face. But thin limbs emerged from the fluff, the physical form forced to interact physically with the world around it, instead of melding it as one could in dreams, and there was a distinct mortality to her, unlike the aura gods gave off. Her brother, and the wyrm, and even that forsaken child Seer had appointed to take her beloved goddess down, they all had a draw to them.

The Radiance paused, turning away from the tea long enough to gasp down a few more breaths. Her eyes grew focused, not by much, but enough to make her look semi-lucid.

She sat with her, gave her tea when she started looking for it, watched and waited for her to recover some more. For her mind to be more solidly part of this world.

“They were children.”

Seer looked to her. The Radiance had mostly shut her eyes, one hand on the teacup and one wing covering it. What Seer could see of her eyes were glazed over, the mind behind them turned to something well distant. Oh, all right, Seer had a strong feeling what the 'something' was. She had seen the little Vessel. She knew Void was the Radiance's bane, and that nothing else could silence her, or anyone, so thoroughly.

“They were all children. And they were _terrified.”_

A hand weakly clutched Seer's, the atrophied, sunken flesh leaving the god's limbs little more than knobby bumps of carapace. Golden eyes, alight with desperation, sought her out, begged for a moment's attention, which was readily given. “Droves of them. Massive clutches, so many they crushed each other under their weight. The crunching. Beloved, oh my beloved moth, the sound of tiny masks cracking.”

Seer covered the Radiance's hand, clasping it in a steady embrace. She waited, listened, for her to calm. It had been a powerful anger, yes, what the Radiance could feel. Her rage consumed her, and, as Hallownest's fate showed, consumed everyone around her. Everyone but her moths.

“And why,” she asked, her voice worn with age but smooth with the humming, the chants, she'd used to keep her mind about her, “Were they born in the first place?”

The Radiance was quiet, for a time. Perhaps her coma-addled mind struggled to put the pieces together. Perhaps she didn't want to admit her part in this whole thing. All these horrors, they had not come from nowhere. As much as the Radiance wouldn't want to say it, this was her wreckage, too.

“He sought to use them-”

“Why?”

Her eyes narrowed, golden slits on a black background. She thought, or fumed, or both, taking her time before answering. “I reclaimed what was mine.”

Seer cocked her head. Yes, technically true. In a pared-down, scour-shell way that didn't cover the gravity of the situation at all. But who was she to expect the Radiance to confess her role immediately? She wouldn't have expected it of the Pale King, either, nor any of the other gods involved. “You haven't seen what's happened to the kingdom, have you?”

“Through so many eyes,” the Radiance rasped. She almost sounded like her brother; Seer couldn't imagine how dehydrated she must feel. A few sips of tea preceded the Radiance's next words. “I felt it in so many hearts and minds. My people...”

Seer held the tea up again and, in the quiet of the goddess sipping with a strained desperation, asked herself what she was doing next. She couldn't let the Radiance run about, not looking as she did in the dream realm. Perhaps they would both live in exile, tending the graves she had filled. It would be due punishment, wouldn't it? Having to live separated from the people she devoted herself to?

“The corruption-”

“It's dead, my Radiance.” Her eyes locked on those of the goddess. Where was the warmth she knew would be there, deep within? An ancestral memory, passed on, and buried under the light of Hallownest's cold new god. “It's all dead.”

 _“Please.”_ The Radiance reached out, clasped Seer's hand in her own, held tight and desperate. A hunger burned in her gaze, the hunger of someone starved and given a meal, but with their benefactor's hand waiting to snatch the plate back at any second. “Please do not blame me.”

With a sigh, Seer shook her head. “I don't only blame you. I know he played his part. Either way, whenever I look outside now I see a mass grave, and both you and him claimed to love this place. It's gone now, though. You ravaged it. What kind of love is that?”

“Please.” The voice came rougher, the grip tightened. But there was nothing more for the Radiance to say. Her eyes remained wide, unfocused, her breaths nothing but tired pants. Even as Seer eased her off, settled her back down and readjusted the pillows and blankets, the Radiance stared into nothingness and heaved breath after breath.

“You don't need to worry about being forgotten any more. You'll be all right there, I promise. I know you. I remember you.” She couldn't help it any more. Gently, Seer reached out to stroke the fluff of the Radiance's face, combing it out and smoothing it down. Just touching it soothed the heart, its exquisite softness calming you the further you sunk your hand into it. It was so easy to see how her ancestors stayed with her, finding her soft and loving and their dearest protection against the horrors of the outside world. Not that they'd had much choice but to think that, until the Wyrm came along.

“If you're going to worry about anything, make it food and drink. You're in our world now, I do hope you remember how to play by its rules.”

A hand clawed against the floor, the Radiance trying to drag herself upright. Seer let her try, watching as she scraped and scrabbled and got nowhere much at all. It would only make matters worse, getting too hands-on with her as she recovered. She had to figure things out for herself, and she'd be quite frankly insulted if Seer were to try and intervene all the time.

She gave up for the moment, or at least paused long enough to think, and to speak. “Beloved moth-”

“Seer.”

“Seer, why did you leave me? What happened to drive us apart?”

Seer's head bowed. It was... a long tale. A cruel one. To forget so callously was to kill, on the gods' scale. It went against everything her people knew, and held sacred, to dare to forget.

“Maybe I can tell the tale later? You ought to focus on recovering your strength. You've been asleep some time.”

The Radiance slumped back into her nest, eyes dimming, almost shutting. “I slept so long, after he destroyed me. Please don't let me sleep again.”

“You're going to need to, in a body like that.” Seer tucked the blankets around her; maybe she would get the hint and stay down to rest. The only sustenance she had in her body was tea, there wasn't much of anything she was going to do. “It won't be like what it was before, though, I'm sure. You will wake up again, and it won't have been that long. Just a night's worth.”

Seer stood, humming as she picked up the cup. She'd brew some more tea, yes, and find something to eat. Perhaps one of the ampules of nectar would do, a solid energy boost to help the Radiance regain her strength.

That's when she saw horns cresting the ledges by her home. Still distant, but approaching.

She wasn't prone to curse, but a few slipped her tongue as she buried the Radiance in cushions, hushing her as she struggled. _“Vessels,”_ she hissed, shutting the Radiance up immediately.

She sat down, and waited, and within a few seconds the small one hopped up, those Void-filled pits of eyes staring into her for a moment before they turned.


	32. Everything But Tame

A large, dark hand, so familiar it made her sick to the stomach, grasped and clawed the ledge. She had already seen their horns, long and pointed, and soon their face rose into view as they hauled their way to Seer's home.

The Radiance didn't dare move the pillows obscuring her view, but her breath quickened at the sight. She dug her fingers into the blanket wrapped around her, biting down the urge to scream, to express the pain and anger and confinement they had brought her. Her wings ached, and on instinct she sought out her other eyes, the senses and bodies of those she had taken in under her, but they were all gone. All of them, torn away, by that one, and the little one, who looked so innocuous, so overconfident for something of their stature.

The Hollow Knight and the Lord of Shades, returning to haunt her like the dead children they were. Had they come to destroy her at last, pierce her through the heart, perhaps, or lop off her head? She saw the Lord of Shades had a nail, the same one they had driven into their sibling's carapace, and her own. The Hollow Knight didn't have theirs, though. They wouldn't want it, she bet, returning to the Temple would be too much. She knew she'd refuse to go there herself.

“You return!” Seer cooed, patting a spot before her, a cushion laid out for the Lord of Shades. They stared, with a gaze one could disappear into; the Void did so love to take things and never let them out again. Yet, perhaps by her better judgment, Seer did not pay it much mind, did not look at them too long, instead turning to the other. “And you bring a sibling. I recall hearing of you, Hollow Knight, though that was long ago. Come, sit, ohh, look at that. Poor dear. May I take a look?”

The Hollow Knight sat, cross-legged and hunched over, as obedient as ever. The Lord of Shades only watched as Seer took their sibling's face in her hands, stroking the crack marring the mask. She clucked over them like they were a grub, not full-grown warrior.

“That looks like it hurts, doesn't it? Oh, and the arm too? Poor dear.” Seer's hand rested on The Hollow Knight's shoulder, so close to the nearly empty socket. How much it had hurt, simultaneously needing to push through, to get out of her prison, for her Light to go somewhere, and to feel the limb coming loose, falling apart so unwillingly.

Seer reached up, pressing a soft kiss, buffered by moth fluff, to The Hollow Knight's head. She cupped their face, holding them close, forehead to forehead. “I am so sorry that happened to you. How cruel, for someone to hurt you like that.”

How _cruel?_ Surely she spoke of the Pale King, he who did this to his own children, the foul wyrm casting his spawn upon the world only to discard them, all of them. Even this one, trained and grown in the pampering, corrupt world of Hallownest's nobility, had been thrown away. The Pale King dressed them like some favorite doll and then threw them away, locked them in the Temple, and her with them.

They were hardly the only one, too. She recalled, from their memories, the others. Three Dreamers, further tamping down her power. One, dedicated to his King, refusing to believe the wyrm could do any wrong. Another, dedicated to the world, to preserving it and everything in it. The third, who motivated herself with thoughts of her daughter.

All of them had to die to undo the seals. But she had not been the one to enact the seals. She had not been the one to steal, to take things and then throw a tantrum when someone sought their return.

She had whispered things to The Hollow Knight, when her rage burned low. She promised them things, if they worked with her. That she would be quiet, and let them live their life, and return to their family. For a time, she even believed it herself. Her brother, she knew, kept a vessel. She didn't know how he stood it, even less so now than before she had been sealed away. There had been so little to work with, in terms of a personality. The Hollow Knight was so used to simply accepting the orders of whomever spoke to them last, and their silence, they were convinced, would be enough to drown her out.

But they had known they weren't silent. She had found them, those hopes and dreams and wishes, those things firmly within her realm. They would never be fulfilled, the way they lived, she had told them. Truly, they ought to have enjoyed their life while they could. Perhaps, if their father loved them enough, if they had confessed, he would have kept them as his child and found a different Vessel. She spun daydreams and fantasies that kept them happy, kept them entertained for a while. How bittersweet it was, watching them slowly give in, to all the love they'd found. All the love and guilt and joy and anxiety. She had found all those bleeding places, where they had cut their own soul away only to fail to fit into the mold they could never have come from in the first place, and told them they were wounds.

Had she, in her anger, lashed out? When the little one, they who would become the Lord of Shades, fought their sibling, had she been unable to hold back? Yes, she recalled maneuvering The Hollow Knight, sending out controlled bursts of her power in an attempt to hit the little Vessel.

She even recalled, almost blind with rage, using her power to lift up The Hollow Knight and slam them down, see if their oversize, gangly body would hit the annoying speck.

Perhaps that had gone too far. Perhaps she had forgotten, for that brief moment, this was a being of her realm, too, prone to wishes and dreams.

Did they not have their family now, though? The one sibling, at least, and the younger one, the spiderling, had been at that decisive battle, too. They had gotten what they wished, in the end. Perhaps only in part; the Radiance had no way of knowing what had happened to the Pale King or the White Lady, but they got more than nothing.

Ah. Seer was making them tea, now. She only had a few cups, and kept apologizing for the one she'd let the Radiance use and calling it dirty. The Hollow Knight almost seemed distraught over the idea of them taking tea without her. All those particular noble things. What would they have thought of life back when she was in charge, where nobody claimed precedence over another? She had been careful, meticulous even, to ensure everyone's needs were fulfilled, and there was no conflict. She would resolve issues, and defend her people. It was her duty, as their goddess.

She couldn't see the Lord of Shades well, from where she was, but she suspected what they must be doing. Her ancient enemy had never been one to express much at all, absorbing everything into their depths. Everything that made her disappeared into them. Indeed, she didn't think they had moved since Seer told them where to sit. That was all they needed to do. Wait, and observe.

Something flashed and thumped. The Radiance startled, the shudder of the pillows covering her only gone unnoticed because everyone else turned to look, too.

There was the other sibling. The little sister, cloaked in red. How much The Hollow Knight had adored her. The Radiance had sought her, after she managed to get out of her prison, but she couldn't make sense of her mind long enough to get a foothold before the girl's will shoved her out. She had come across Light, powered by Soul all the same as the Pale King, but there was Void, too, not enough to consume her, but clearly the substance had gotten fed up with the King's behavior that it elected to take its revenge in its own way, or it had simply hitched a ride from how much he messed with it and spread to his daughter, and it could have cared less where it was. To personify it too much was dangerous.

She had known of the spiderling, through the minds she connected with, and through The Hollow Knight most of all. She had experienced them holding her for the first time, minuscule in their hand. Through their eyes, she grew in fits and bursts, barely seen during her infancy, when her mother refused to give her up. By the time she came to know them again, she could walk, and talk, and question things, and it had been like a brand-new introduction. They loved her still, and wished to play with her, to teach her, like siblings did, though they would not call it wishes.

They snuck little things, here and there, often at her demand. Letting her perch between their horns, changing their stance so she could better see how they moved when they fought, things like that. Once, when she was ill, a cold like children got all the time, she had found them, and curled up against their belly, and refused to move. Yet, despite the surging will to protect, as by their own heart and the orders of her mother, when the Pale King came, and tried to coax her off, they did nothing as she cried, and continued to do nothing as the White Lady followed her husband and plucked the spider's child off of hers, and cradled her in her arms to muffle angry sobs.

The Radiance had not been able to get much, from what she saw in others' minds, or that of the Gendered Child herself. She had little to show The Hollow Knight as the spiderling grew up, with them locked away.

“Hollow! Ghost! Why did you _run off?”_ The little spider's anger shook her hands and lit her eyes.

The Lord of Shades – Ghost, an oddly cutesy nickname for something so powerful, did she even understand their power? - stared at her, before producing their nail. The Hollow Knight didn't even look her way.

“Yes, I see you got your nail. It does not change the fact that the two of you ran all the way to the Resting Grounds from Dirtmouth. Hallownest isn't safe, even with the infection gone. You cannot parry crumbling architecture.” How casually she spoke with them. How used she must be to their presence, blind to what they contained.

Seer picked up the used cup and set about to finding something, likely to clean it with. “Are you staying for tea, too?”

The Gendered Child sputtered. The Radiance had seen enough to know she was hardly some stuffy court bug, growing up in Deepnest alone would have gotten rid of that. But she was still the Pale King's daughter, who practiced her manners on her dear sibling after lessons in etiquette, science, and whatever else could fit in her little head.

“I would say people call me Seer, generally, but there's not much in the way of people left around here. What's your name, then?”

“Hornet.” Ah, so the Gendered Child had gotten a name. Yes, from Vespa, though very few of the bees had known it, and at the time the Radiance had not been all that focused on searching their memories.

“Hm. Funny, you don't look much like a bee. Now, what's going on with these two, here? Oh, and sit down, there's not much reason to stand about if you're staying for tea.” Seer must have found what she had been looking for, because she poured some water onto a rag, added a small scrap of soap, and got to scrubbing.

“I-” Hornet looked to Ghost, and whatever she saw there made her reconsider what she was about to say. “I said something about our father and I believe- Hollow was upset about it.” She didn't look away, but the Radiance could practically feel how much she wanted to.

Seer gestured at The Hollow Knight with the cup. “And so you came all the way over here instead of talking about it?” Her head cocked to the side, she kept on cleaning. “I suppose your sorts can't do much talking, but that's quite a ways to storm off. What exactly was said about your father to warrant running like that?”

The Hollow Knight didn't move at all. The Radiance swore, though, that the Lord of Shades started to squirm in their seat. Such strange behavior from such a thing.

“I said he put no love into us, or our creation. We existed to further his plans. I haven't seen him do all that much to the contrary.” Hornet sat, legs crossed, one foot twitching. Ever vigilant. Always ready to pick up and fight, or run.

Oh, but how The Hollow Knight thrived on the idea their father loved them. They had recalled, so clearly, every moment he did something they could construe as affectionate, as warm and loving and all those other things. It would hurt, the idea he never loved them at all.

“And this one here-” Seer gestured to Hollow. “You ran all the way here over it?”

The shame the Vessel must have felt. So tactless, so un-knightly. Nothing that would fit in among royal court manners. You didn't flee your problems if you were nobility. You either wrangled them into nothingness or covered them up.

Slowly, The Hollow Knight reached up, reached back, and patted at their back.

Now, this revealed two things, one of which the Radiance knew well enough, one she suspected.

One, The Hollow Knight was not nearly so empty and pure as they'd been touted about as. They could communicate perfectly well of their own will, they just felt miserable about the whole deal and shoved all that under the metaphorical blankets.

Two, the scars they'd sustained while chained up, and in the fight, managed to reach quite far. She had done that, hadn't she? When everything bubbled through their carapace, cracking it into pieces, she did that to them. What a painful blemish it must be; she knew exactly how deep it dug, after all.

“And they grabbed me more roughly than necessary?” Hornet's translation seemed uncertain. Since when did a noble of any sort admit a fault? Even if they had never held a title besides Knight, that did not change their manners.

“Hmm. Lots of old wounds there on both sides, from the sounds of it already. Have you two tried apologizing to each other yet?”

The two shared a look. The Radiance held back an amused snort; what would it take for them to admit such a thing to each other?

A few long, painful seconds' time, from the looks of it. The Hollow Knight, after those few seconds had passed, reached out. They cupped their sister's face, rubbing her horn with their thumb. Blank eyes stared down at her, just as lightless as the rest of their body, save a death-white mask.

Her hand rested on their wrist. So tiny, compared to theirs; their arm was as big around as a small child, after all, like the weaverlings she had grown up with. “I understand he mattered to you, and that our experiences with him were different. I will keep that in mind in the future.”

They rubbed her back, where they must have grabbed her, with two fingers. She rolled a shoulder, and they instead spent a moment scrubbing the top of her head (much to Seer's amused chuckling) before sitting back.

And then there was the truly strange part.

The Lord of Shades, the god-monster who had slumbered under Hallownest, thankfully at peace lest they wreak havoc again, ran over to their sister on stubby little legs and tumbled into her lap. They reached out, waving at The Hollow Knight, as if this was all a game. When the larger Vessel lowered their hand they grabbed it, pulling it down like a blanket.

The teakettle began to sing, and Seer poured cups for each of the siblings. With a warm laugh at their antics, she set the cups down before them. “Now, be careful there, don't go spilling my tea everywhere. I am afraid I cannot let you stay here for too long, my place just isn't built for that, but a little liveliness is more than welcome. Look at you. Your siblings bring out quite the soft side, don't they?”

The Lord of Shades stayed right by their siblings' sides, all up through the time they left and the Radiance could dare to uncover herself, staring out as The Hollow Knight's cloak disappeared down below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Radi's... she'll figure it out, some day, hopefully.
> 
> Anyways, now I am definitely at the end of my buffer, but I shall spend some time building it up again. Cannot guarantee when I will be ready to go with more, but there is stuff in the works so I have not abandoned this story!


	33. Make Myself A King

Lemm's arms shook, awe and rage overtaking his face in equal measures. His mouth remained open under his long beard; Quirrel only knew this because sometimes, screaming came out.

It was certainly a worthy sight for screaming. Even collapsed, the wyrm's incredible maw, lined with mandibles that practically put the city spires to shame, and the intricate plates and swirls of his plating, stole one's breath away. Though that might have also been the wind, bitter and filled with ash.

Er, well, molt, but it looked an awful lot like ashfall.

How funny it was, finding the King's initial grave. It had been, well, frowned upon to go to the Kingdom's Edge, to put it lightly. Quirrel supposed this must be why. The grave would be a terribly attractive home, or hideout, for any number of things.

“Huh,” he mused, scratching at his chin below his mask, where the knot for his bandanna rested, “I feel like the King was... much smaller than this.”

Lemm grabbed him and he squawked, stumbling and almost falling before he regained his balance. Even then, his traveling companion kept a tight grip on him, his gaze boring so deep Quirrel thought Lemm could practically see right through his head. “ _You,_ with all your _weird secrets._ What do you mean, 'much smaller?' I haven't been able to find a thing on him besides idols and fucking wall hangings.”

“Oh, well, in this case... I don't know. I just feel like he was... maybe my height? No, not really. He had very tall horns, he just about doubled his height with them, but I think his eye level was-” Quirrel eased out of Lemm's grasp to stand straight, and tapped the side of his hand around thorax level. “About here on me? Hornet, the one spider we met?”

Lemm nodded, desperate for him to get on with it. “The one with The Hollow Knight.”

“Exactly! I think she's around his height now.”

“Ah, yes, most logical, because _she is his daughter!”_ Lemm let him go in favor of throwing his arms at the air and yelling at the corpse some more. “You, you sanctimonious hermit, impregnated some spider-”

That part felt wrong, and Quirrel frowned. Had he known Hornet's mother? He must have, right? Something itched in the back of his mind, but he could not recall anything more specific than the fact she had been a spider. A large one, perhaps, even moreso than the Weavers, who were already not a small people. Had he met her, while he tutored her daughter? She would want to meet him if he was teaching Hornet, right?

“-Now she's telling me where to find your shedding, collapsed corpse, and it turns out! Oh, it turns out you were not simply a god, you were a _wyrm._ A big, ancient, wyrm! I cannot _believe_ you.”

Quirrel had to chuckle. To speak so brazenly of the King! He felt like Lemm wasn't the only person who would talk that way; maybe Hornet's mother would, too, but for the life of him he could not remember a thing about her. Perhaps it would come to him later. He hoped it would come to him later. “It must be rather special, then, for him to be a wyrm?”

“Special? Do you know how rare these beasts are? One will take multiple kingdoms' worth of territory, and then some! It's quite likely that when he died, someone else tried to move in, and... Hm.” Lemm ran his fingers through his beard, eyes narrowing as he thought. “I suppose if there's a new resident wyrm, they have not made themselves known. Which, since this was one wyrm's territory, it's probably attractive for others, so why would none have moved in?”

The two sat there, pondering the matter. Why were there no other wyrms moving in? Had the Pale King and White Lady been that good at deterring unwanted attention? Was everything around them some wyrm's territory, skirting around Hallownest? No reason it couldn't be, Quirrel supposed. He had not met nor heard of such a wyrm on his travels – his long, long travels – but it was possible.

“Do you think he had any children?” Lemm asked.

“We were just discussing his daughter.”

Lemm sputtered, shaking his head so fast his beard lagged after his face. “No, no! _Wyrm_ children. Great beasts like that.”

Would the Pale King have ever mentioned such a thing? Would one of his children have necessarily moved in to take their father's place? What would happen when they died, would they molt like this and be reborn, then try to usurp their younger siblings and take the kingdom? But at the same time... Most of Quirrel's memories came to him as images, and sounds. Factual things. This time, though, was a feeling in his gut, vague sensations where he _knew_ something had happened but could not see it in his mind's eye, not in the least. The tall Vessel, trained as a knight. The little wanderer, a sibling abandoned. A small child running around the palace, seeking out her stepmother, her sibling, but not her father.

“I don't think he was terribly inclined towards being a parent,” he said at last. “He may well have not had any children as a wyrm.”

As if she had known they were talking about her and her predecessor, a needle flew through the air, a blur of red following shortly afterwards. Two dark, shadowy forms faded into being right behind her.

Ash flew up as the smallest of the three ran forwards, stopping directly in front of Quirrel. They stared up at him, eyes as dark as ever, their body neatly tucked under their cloak.

He could not help but break out in a smile, albeit one mostly hidden by his mask. How excited they were! Sure, they did not leap about him or chatter like most children would, but he recognized enthusiasm nonetheless. They had made it through their mission, then. Perhaps they had been off wandering when he ran into Hornet and The Hollow Knight in the city. They seemed to be the independent sort.

“Hello, my friend! Your sister here pointed us to this place, and so we decided to take a look.” He pointed at the wyrm's corpse. Had they seen it before? This was their father's grave, was it not? If they were siblings with the other two? They would have never seen the king in person, would they? “What do you think?”

They stared at it, their expression betraying nothing. How strange the Vessels were, able to express themselves so brightly and then sink back into some sort of emotional oblivion. One would, depending on when you caught them, think they felt nothing at all. For something that so closely resembled a normal bug, it did not take much observation to find something... off, about them. Them and their encompassing silence, how they went beyond even a normal black-shelled bug's coloration to look like something completely unnatural, if you looked at them too long. It was not as easy to see with the wanderer, covered with a cloak, but there was a deadness to them, and the distinct sense you saw something, almost like an imprint, or a smudge left on the world, like a-

“Ghost, do you know Quirrel and Lemm, then?” Hornet asked her sibling.

They turned and looked to her, then Lemm, and at last their eye sockets bored into Quirrel. An affirmation, as far as he could tell. He had found it funny, when Lemm talked to him about the one other visitor he had gotten in Hallownest, a strange thing who would come in and silently hand over relics for him to put a value on and pay them back for.

“We are familiar with each other, yes.” Ghost, then? So they did have a name.

 _Of course,_ he thought. _Hornet bestowed her older sibling a name, too._ It came with a recollection, a meeting between the Dreamers, a child's voice calling for Hollow, the vague knowledge he was supposed to correct them, that the Vessel was 'The Hollow Knight.'

Speaking of, the bigger Vessel looked frozen in place. If Ghost was odd if you looked at them too long, The Hollow Knight had an aura about them that he couldn't place. He had been around bigger bugs, but none three times his height at minimum. (Monomon, yes, but she was soft, and lively.) They loomed, magnifying Ghost's nothingness into a giant that could obliterate you without a second thought, moving through the world like a generally bug-shaped hole in reality.

But they stood there, passive, behind their sister, not moving at all, only staring at the collapsed corpse.

“We thought we heard a fight,” Hornet said. “Primarily a lot of screaming.”

“That was not your problem.” Lemm crossed his arms, glaring at the princess. Hah, he must have been quite embarrassed.

“Lemm was quite enthused about this find,” Quirrel explained, hoping it would set her at ease. They had crossed paths with many corpses on their way here, and had to scramble out of the way of the primal aspids flitting about, chasing them down with a terrible drive. That had been an adventure neither he nor Lemm wished to repeat. “Thank you very much for pointing us to it, by the way.”

“There is no more point hiding our father's secrets.” How strange-spoken the princess was. Did she always try to simply allude to other things, despite an otherwise forthright way of talking? She did seem to like doing it.

“He was a _wyrm?”_

“I do believe we've established that, Lemm.” Quirrel nodded heartily.

Hornet nodded, too, though with a more solemn manner. Did she have her own concerns about it? Quirrel supposed she was his child. Who knew? Maybe she would grow up to look like that, do the opposite of what he did and shed her smaller, mortal body to grow into such a creature. Though she looked an awful lot like her siblings, down to the disconcerting shadowy coloration, and Hollow had not grown to become such a thing.

Unless they were not done growing. The prospect of that unsettled Quirrel to his core. Surely they were too thin and gangly to contain something like a wyrm if they molted? Or metamorphosed, he supposed.

Oh, gods. Ghost was still staring at him. He eased himself out of a startle; they meant him no harm. They were a good kid.

“How has- how have things been, then?” he asked the group. “It's been a bit since we've seen each other.”

“There's been business to attend to,” Hornet said. Was it just him, or did she seem uncomfortable with the question? It was hard to tell where she was looking, but he did not think she was meeting his eyes any more. “Hollow needed to get out.”

“Well, I hope you're all enjoying your trek.” There would be royal duties to attend to, wouldn't there? Since there were survivors of the plague and all. He had heard of Hornet coming around, now that he knew to ask, but never for long. She always had somewhere to go, she'd stick around long enough to sort out any issues (there weren't much of any, besides the repairs being slow going) and then she would be gone again.

She blinked. Did he surprise her, really? “I shall let you to your archaeology.”

Her siblings took the signal, Ghost hurrying off. Hollow was slower, their gaze almost stuck to the corpse before they got far enough away that they had to watch where they were going. Hornet gave the dead wyrm one last, long look before she followed her siblings out.


	34. Flashback VI: When I Was

_Rarely did the Pale King talk with her any more. She spent most of her time at the Hive, occasionally returning to the White Palace, venturing out to the City of Tears for schooling Vespa couldn't provide, or visiting Deepnest to see Midwife and pay tribute to her mother._

_It had been, to put it mildly, out of the ordinary when he appeared, solemn, in the Hive. A cluster of bees followed him, wary but entranced by his light. At first the sight of him filled the Gendered Child with cold fear; had someone died? Who? Midwife? No, he would not know if Midwife died. Lillien? He was marginally invested in ensuring she knew people outside her family, he asked for updates on that sometimes, like he asked for reports._

_She came to stand before him, her frown deepening. He was serious, that much she could tell, but everything he did seemed to be some degree of seriousness or another. Had he ever had a moment of levity? She was not sure._

_“Pale King?” she said. His eyes narrowed, but she did not know why._

_“I must speak with you and Vespa. There is something you must see.”_

_And that had been the start of her first venture to the Kingdom's Edge. All her life, people had only spoken of the place in whispers, that it was locked off for good reason, the king's own decree leading to an aggressive moratorium on construction, habitation, or even travel to it. He would not issue such a thing lightly, and so her stomach churned as she followed her father. He had blasted away a pile of loose rubble, not far from the Hive, and revealed the entrance to a gaping tunnel. She recognized the spiraling patterns on it. He had always claimed he made them himself, long ago, describing a gargantuan form. She had seen the molt that blew in through the tunnels, more like ash than anything biological, and so, as a child, she accepted what he said._

_Now, though, as they drew closer, and the air grew colder and draftier, more and more ashen molt fluttered about, getting everywhere. It formed deep piles, small mounds that got closer and closer together until the Gendered Child found herself knee deep in the stuff. She wasn't sure how her father was taking it, with numerous smaller legs instead of long ones. He kept his usual pace, though, as if this was another walk through the palace halls._

_He led her deeper, deeper into unfamiliar territory. Past corpses, some fresh, some buried in the ash, all wearing armor._

_“Refuse,” he said before she could ask of their origin, “From a colosseum above. Do not seek glory from them, they have nothing to offer but brutal blood sport.”_

_For a moment she was tempted to run off and seek out this colosseum, solely out of spite._

_“You permit them?”_

_He did not even blink. “If I ran them out of here, their next setup would only make matters worse.”_

_They climbed and climbed. Rather, the Pale King flew, and the Gendered Child followed with either a spider's dexterity or by cutting through the air with her needle. He never glanced back to ensure she was behind him, and only looked up in the slightest when she got ahead._

_They descended again, taking a twisting, narrow path. The Pale King handled it easily, his multitude of legs taking care of the often sharp drops without issue. He briefly looked around a particularly large space, its ceiling high. It was as if he measured it, planned something for the space._

_“What are we here for-”_

_Before she could finish her question, the Pale King spread his wings and took one last drop._

_She jumped down, and found him standing there, arms behind his back, staring up and away from her. She glowered; why must he be like this? Why must he demand her time and attention, then not say or do a thing?_

_“Pale King, what are-”_

_He raised a finger and pointed._

_That is when she turned and saw it. A corpse, striking in both its similarity and alien nature. In its long body and sharp maw she saw Midwife, and the mandibles clearly matched the spires on her father's crown, its ghastly paleness matching his, albeit without the glow always surrounding him. Yet she saw no eyes, and the chitin had an almost metallic sheen to it, burls bursting from its back in a manner reminiscent to the spines she sometimes found patches of in the Basin. It dwarfed her; she would not have registered to such a beast as anything more than a skittering, worthless thing, she knew._

_She also knew, implicitly, deeply, that this thing lying dead before her and her father, small and bright with the same oval, dark eyes as her, were one and the same._

_“Why are you showing me this?” He had never brought up the idea before, never suggested that, perhaps, one day, he ought to take a walk with his daughter and show her his decaying corpse. It had not seemed relevant to anything, and thus it did not happen._

_What had changed his mind? Had he foreseen something that necessitated coming here? Was it about her? She hadn't molted too recently, but all of her molts had gone the same, with her just growing bigger, her horns longer. She never got the many limbs either of her parents had, never changed much more except early molts where she had shed some deformed shell and improved her eyesight, as spiders did. Did he think she was destined to become something like this? A monster, so big the only thing it could do with a kingdom would be to devour it?_

_Or were there other matters? Some spiritual reasoning, perhaps. He had been wrong, and the worship his people directed to him needed to be directed to his corpse, instead. Though he had lived a long, long time, and would he only have figured that out now? The idea did not seem right._

_“Child,” he said, in that contemplative way he got into whenever he was in important conversations, but small ones, not the great meetings he called. No, this tone was soft, in a way, only meant for certain people to hear. Even as the only other person present, as the one being addressed, the Gendered Child felt like she was overhearing something she shouldn't. “What do you know of my past? Of my magic, and of my kingship?”_

_Her eyes narrowed. Something strange was afoot, but what? “You tell me little of any of those, save for how to improve my spellwork.”_

_His magical philosophy was a far cry from the Weavers', but she saw him more than she saw them, and she had inherited her magic from him. It was he who taught her how to gather Soul, how to focus it. Even then, he did not understand silk like the Weavers did, yet at the same time they did not know what to do of silk made purely from Soul; theirs was always hybridized with their natural silk._

_She did know he was called Wyrm, though, and that he had made the tunnels, and once he claimed to have had a mother._

_“Before you, you see what I was. What, perhaps, I always shall be. And what you may be, within. In instinct, that is. I do not see you growing to a form like that.” It was a strange beast to imagine her father as. She was already approaching his eye level, and looked forwards to surpassing it. Yet he, not a particularly large bug, and one with almost childish proportions, had once been this thing. This god-monster was her father, and she its broodling._

_“This land,” he said, “And so much more beyond, was my territory. I slayed the creature that claimed it, just as I later slayed the goddess who claimed Hallownest before me. Though the former had the dignity to stay dead the first time.”_

_“What do you mean, goddess?” The only other goddesses around that she knew of were the White Lady (clearly not dead) and Unn (hibernating, but she and the other gods had reached some kind of territorial agreement)._

_“The infection your sibling contains, that they and your mother stand guard against, is borne of magic. Light and Dream, specifically, and its source is the goddess thereof. Know that to seek her power is to forfeit your self. To seek her memory is to doom your people.”_

_And that was why they were opposed, then. The White Lady had told her, or perhaps more of warned her, that gods' realms were of two parts: the domain and the form. The White Lady was a being of Light and Life, the Pale King a being of Light and Knowledge, and Unn a being of Acid and Life. Every pairing between gods was a delicate balance; too similar, and they fought each other, particularly if they were of the same domain. Too disparate, and they also fought, but there were points in between where they complemented each other, and others where they could at least coexist. But most of the space in between lead to territorial disputes._

_“I still do not see why we are here.” Was he planning to somehow reclaim his old form, and sought her to bear witness? Why her, and not the White Lady? “What does any of this have to do with your corpse?”_

_He beckoned her to follow, and strode for the monster's mouth. “It is less the corpse and more what is inside.”_

_Hollowed bug shells from ancient, huge specimens were occasionally used as architecture. She had been inside such places, including the Black Egg Temple. Yet it seemed strange to think that this place was both a structure and her father._

_He said nothing of it, though he did not take the path like he would any other old building. He looked around, studied areas, perhaps coming to understand what he had once been, perhaps judging its integrity. It may well have been both._

_“There are certain things linked to the King's Brand. It is what determines the true ruler of Hallownest.” At last, he glanced back, a shimmer in his eye. “Though the White Lady has all authority that is not tied to its magic as well.”_

_“But not Deepnest.”_

_He took a deep, steadying breath, to the point she saw his thorax flex. “No, not Deepnest.”_

_She smiled to herself. After all this time, he had managed to establish trade with the Weavers, but Deepnest itself had yet to submit entirely to his rule. And, once she was old enough, and Vespa said she was ready, she planned on reminding her father that Deepnest was a force to be reckoned with. She would be her own ruler, not something for him to use in his strategies._

_He paused, and as she caught up he shrugged his robes off, letting it fall onto his tail. His multiple arms unfolded from where he tucked them against his thorax._

_It was hard to make out past his natural glow, but she saw the outline of a mark, burned into his carapace just below his collar. It was the symbol she had seen all over the kingdom, with all the sharpness of his stylized form. It stood out the slightest bit brighter, almost painful on the pure white shell._

_“It has been there since shortly after I molted.” He picked his robe up again and, curling his arms around himself again, he pulled it on. How could he give himself so many limbs and then hide them all away? Did he not understand how often she had watched her mother or the Weavers at work, and wished she could work like they did? How often she had asked Midwife when she would get more arms, whether she would grow them like the other spiders did when they lost limbs?_

_All her life, she remembered wounds bleeding blue and black. It was one of the few instances where she would see the Pale King emote, with a frown etched deep in his face while he patched up cuts and scrapes. She always resembled Hollow, and neither of her parents bled black. Long ago she had demanded of her father why she looked like Hollow, and he gave her the blunt truth. She'd pieced it together later: that Hollow's existence was why she only had two arms._

_They came to a blockage, a thick network of tissue culminating in an egg. A cocoon? No, it more resembled an egg, its shell broken._

_“I was old. A wyrm's first body is not ageless. As the years caught up to me, I planned my new body, and my new life. I knew there was another god in my territory, one I had ignored, and who had ignored me, but Hallownest is my territory. I elected to keep it, and so I came here to die. I formed myself, and the King's Brand.”_

_He gestured to something glowing within the egg; without the Pale King's glow to compete with it, it shone bright, small but unmistakable. That was the same brand as the one on his thorax._

_She reached out, enticed by its brightness._

_A hand clasped around her wrist, claws not digging in at all but they made their presence known. Slowly, the Pale King lowered her arm, as if it were nothing more than some colorful thing that happened to pique her curiosity but it went against propriety to touch, instead of a magic artifact. It was not for her, not for the Heir of Deepnest._

_She frowned. “Why are you showing me this?”_

_His gaze was both directed for the King's Brand and nothing at all, light dancing across his eyes. Her stomach clenched; she knew that look on him._

_“Because, my child, I need you to keep this safe.”_

_He shut his eyes. “For one of us isn't going to make it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheee, I'm back! I've got a few rounds of buffer built up, and no pressing writing projects taking precedence. We're looking at more of the end of things; if you want to go by the three act structure we should be getting to the start of act three soon. I've got some things to bring up and wrap up, so it's not ending _soon_ soon, but Jaxx is at the home stretch.
> 
> Thanks y'all for your comments; I read all of them and when I have a brain cell, try to reply. Warms my heart to see folks engaging with this work ^.^
> 
> EDIT: wow I really do keep forgetting to call out the flashbacks in the chapter titles don't I?


	35. See The Despair Behind Their Eyes

Hornet had not been certain whether she wanted to drag her siblings to the City of Tears. Hollow had already had trouble there, and she was not sure Little Ghost would be mindful about the statue. Besides, her business took her right to the Watcher's Spire, so there was little way to avoid the city center.

Ghost, though, plowed on right to the large elevator, eagerly stamping their foot until the construct shuddered and began to descend.

They were the first out of the elevator, too, running ahead, turning into that strange shadow form to teleport ahead in fits and bursts. Sometimes they paused and turned, waiting for their siblings to catch up, but they kept a good distance ahead, as if they were scouting out the place.

Was it instinct that took them to the Spire? Had they left something there that they wished to reclaim, or complete? Either way, they zeroed in on it, as if the rest of the City were an afterthought.

As they got close, Hornet began to wonder if, perhaps, Ghost's sense of smell was simply better than hers. Though also, they did not seem at all bothered by the odor.

It was always a tossup whether one heard Ogrim first, or smelled him. In this case, his booming voice carried through the city streets, and Ghost rushed to meet him. His rusted red armor and dark, fuzzy features stood out among all the sharp lines and blues, making him easy to track as he bounced towards the siblings.

“Is it so?” he called, waving to them, his eyes on The Hollow Knight alone, “You have returned! I thought that was a most impossible feat!”

Ghost stared up at him, as if awaiting some acknowledgment. They were, after all, the one who destroyed the infection's source and freed their sibling, and then been dead. Or... had they died at all? Were they always that monstrous thing that rose above the Void sea, or was that a new development?

“And the mighty knight! You seem most hale and hearty.” Ogrim reached down to pat Ghost on the head, all the more encouraged when they didn't flinch away. “Enjoying the company of your siblings, as well. A good way to spend one's time! Speaking of whom...”

He did not touch her, though his claw hovered close. Long ago had he learned Herrah and the Weavers as a whole would not accept him soiling Hornet's silken cloaks, though on occasions, when he and his armor were freshly cleaned, he had indulged her in the same sorts of games she played with Hollow. Likely as a distraction to keep her from bothering the Pure Vessel, but she had found it a delight nonetheless, like when the Watcher Knights were around and she dragged them in to be her playmates, too.

Perhaps it should not have been a surprise when the Pale King decided to see she got to know people her age in that time after her mother and sibling's sealing and her being old enough for Vespa to train. The few children at the White Palace, those born to the servants and retainers, and sometimes visiting young nobles, were more afraid of her than anything. (She had particularly enjoyed terrorizing the young nobles. What were they going to do? Her father was the king, and her mother was Herrah the Beast.)

“It has been a long time, hasn't it? My, how you've grown! Surely you were just above your smaller sibling's size last we saw each other!” Ogrim smiled, but there was something to it, something untruthful. Beyond the fact that Hornet had been plenty bigger than Ghost when Ogrim left the Pale King's service.

“It is good to see you, too, Ogrim. How have the rebuilding efforts been?” She bowed to him as much was proper; if anyone was deserving of actual use of her etiquette lessons, she supposed it was the Great Knight. Rather, ex-Knight.

He looked away, shuffling nervously. Ah, so he did not bring good news. “It has been slow. There have been many people questioning whether it is really worth it to bring things like the sewage system or more than the bare necessity of farms back into production. Not that people are all that interested in venturing out to get to the farmlands, anyways. There has been lots of subsisting on whatever vengeflies remain in the area. The population is too big for that, but nobody can be convinced to hunt beyond the city bounds.”

Hornet hissed, ducking past Ogrim and Ghost to storm towards the spire. Nobody had mentioned anything of the sort on her previous visits. They had said they had sufficient resources, and like a fool, she had not pursued the matter. She had been so caught up with her siblings, with patrolling the entirety of Hallownest, with anything but being in charge, that she had eschewed asking key questions in favor of getting to the next place. Everything was all running around, ricocheting from one place to another, because there were so many places and people and only one of her, and one of her had to be sufficient.

Well, she would correct this, at least. They _had_ to get basic services online. They needed to be self-sufficient, perhaps self-governing if Ghost was not going to put the King's Brand to use and claim their place as Hallownest's next ruler. She was not Princess of Hallownest. She never had been. No matter who her sire was.

Ghost and Ogrim followed her in. She would handle Hollow later, though guilt gnawed at her guts. Twice now she had led them to the city and brought them back here. At least this wasn't the side of the statue.

“You!” she snapped at the nearest sentry, who jolted into a salute, “Gather everyone in charge of any of the committees and bring them to the census-takers' meeting room.”

“Would you like us to accompany you?” Ogrim asked, slipping back into a tone Hornet recognized from when he spoke with her father and stepmother.

“Yes. Particularly since Ghost has the King's Brand, and thus this is their rightful duty.” Hornet didn't look back to watch, only listened as the two followed behind her, demure.

The census-takers' room had not changed much since the infection devastated Hallownest. Off to the side of the spire, it had not gotten much foot traffic in the kingdom's height, let alone its decline. Hornet paced it as she waited, rearranging silken scrolls, quills, and containers of ink. She saw Ghost swipe some ink, and elected to say nothing. It would do no good.

The committee leaders came in small clusters. Small indeed, and when Hornet took a headcount she found that a few were missing, including the leader of the agricultural committee.

“Where are the others?” she asked, watching as the committee leaders avoided her gaze and glanced at each other, then nothing in particular.

Lillien was the only one to speak up, and to look at her again. “They stepped down.”

Hornet paused in her pacing, rounding back to the head of the table, beside Ghost. “Stepped down.”

Lillien nodded. “Nayem in particular felt like he wasn't getting anywhere. So did the others. He couldn't tell if it was just him, so he decided to step down, but nobody's been elected to his position.” She shrugged. “Instead, others followed suit.”

Of course it would be the agricultural committee leader who had to leave.

A few of the committee leaders gathered mumbled to themselves, things about how, yes, it had been tempting to leave. One dared to mention planning to resign, too. Whatever had brought them to the position lost its spark. They derived nothing from it any more, and nor did anyone else under them.

Before her, Hornet's reconstruction efforts teetered on their last legs. People stepped down with nobody to replace them. Food would become more scarce as they hunted everything in the city and didn't move out. From there would come infighting, and either refusal to cede to anyone's authority or a breakdown into groups controlled by local warlords. The divisions would only encourage more warfare, and people would either die or leave until Hallownest couldn't even claim to be a ghost of its former self.

She wanted to shout, to tell them they had to get their act together, do their jobs, and elect new leaders to those who would not do their jobs, or else. _Be kind and strong for the people, be immovable to outsiders,_ echoed in her head, though, a mix of Herrah and Vespa's voices. Whether all parties involved liked it or not, and unless Ghost suddenly decided to take on their father's duties, these were her people. She would be strong for them, and kind. She would not berate and threaten them.

“Let's start with the basics. Why is nobody setting up more sustainable agriculture?” She resisted the urge to press on her temples, to display frustration and anger. That her voice was already tight was trouble enough.

Lillien clicked her fingers together, humming as she recalled matters. “Well, from what I remember Nayem saying, nobody could see the payoff. We'd have to find supplies, and trained people, or train people ourselves, the latter of which would mean finding materials to train people with, and then there's seeking out suitable farmland, which takes away from the available workforce here, then we'd have to wait for the crops to come in, which will take forever in and of itself. We need who we've got to keep ourselves going, nobody wants to take on such a huge undertaking.”

All around the room, people mumbled in agreement. A few acknowledged that it was necessary, but they couldn't see the end result, it could be a failure as much as a success. Perhaps it wasn't worth it. Perhaps they ought to stick with what they had.

Hornet took a deep breath, letting it escape from between her chelicerae. Resources. Willpower. She could at least deal with one of those. She looked to her sibling, and asked, “Ghost, would you be willing to spend time hunting and gathering for these people to free up the labor necessary to start up farms for a longer-term food source?”

They nodded once, with a resolute firmness. They were one bug, but she had been capable enough of providing for Deepnest before its people were recovered enough to begin hunting sustainably on their own. Ghost could at least soften the blow to the workforce. Perhaps if Hollow learned safe plants to gather, they could help, too, though she did not want to dedicate her sibling to the task before speaking with them about it first.

“Ogrim, how much work needs to be done on the Waterways before they're at sufficient capacity to sustain the current population?”

“Oh. We're already there! The only concern is should the population expand.” Ogrim hummed, his brows furrowing.

Hornet nodded, and asked the question that she knew was going to lead to more problems on everyone's heads. “How often are new survivors being found, and how many have either laid clutches or are expecting them?”

Lillien, Ogrim, and the others went silent. One of the bugs, a sentry just about cuddling with one of the ex-nobility, curled an arm around her abdomen, her face contorting.

One of the other ex-nobles, with a couple horns curving high off his head, spoke next. “We're finding fewer survivors, at this point I think anyone's either died off or decided to bunker down where they are rather than make the journey here. The only clutch that's been laid failed because it was dormant through all the infection stuff, and it's too early for the 'We survived!' eggs to be laid. Which...” He reached into a satchel hanging off his shoulder and pulled out a small instrument. He blew into it, producing a shrill note, before haphazardly throwing an arm in the air with a sarcastic, “We survived!”

...Would it cause too much unrest if she threw her needle into the instrument? Likely. Someone had to be capable of putting that thing to better use.

“All right. So, we will need to expand functionality with the Waterways by the time those clutches hatch.” Not to mention it sounded like someone was going to need to take a crash course under Midwife's tutelage. Which would mean finding someone willing to come to Deepnest and, more importantly, stay there, and also not be eaten when Midwife got peckish, which was going to be a challenge for Hallownest bugs.

One of the bugs sighed. “Where would we even start?”

“Presumably, where Ogrim says would be the best place.” The infection left an unfortunate lack of plumbers, though she knew some bugs had needed to get involved with learning those skills. For the life of her she could not remember their names, though, nor how well they had progressed in their learning.

The bug hummed, tapping their chin. “Will we have to deal with the surly hoarder again?”

Hornet had a strong suspicion who the surly hoarder was. “Leave him alone as best you can, just do what you must to provide services to his building.”

The general themes of the meeting stayed consistent – bugs did not see the need to make drastic changes. The idea of it unnerved them, and left them sticking with unsustainable methods that were, as soon as those eggs hatched or a significant number of other survivors came in, going to become a series of shortages. Ghost could help in some aspects, but that was a temporary fix with limited capacity. Often Hornet felt like they went in circles, repeating themselves over and over – everyone had lost sight of what they were doing, why they needed to move forwards with these projects. Even when she tried to draw up a rough priority list, everyone looked pained, and unwilling to take the next steps.

She needed to be around the city more. She needed to find some way to improve morale. She had left the people too long, and they had lost sight of their goals, lost hope for anything that could be better than their current situation.

“It's my fault,” she told her siblings as they walked through the city, for the main gates. She rubbed the corners of her eyes, though the pressure did not help much. “Now I'm going to have to be there more to ensure the delegated tasks are accomplished, Ghost is going to be busy trying to avoid a food shortage while people begin agriculture, and I still need to find someone to apprentice under Midwife.”

Hollow knelt. She thought she saw their arm move, but they did not touch her, their hand stayed on the ground to help steady them. Ghost stood beside her, too, staring up at her, rocking on their feet.

She put a hand on each's shoulders. They could both use the reassurance, she was sure. “We'll get through this,” she told them, for they needed to hear it, “But for now, you two should return to Deepnest. I'm going to see if there's good hunting in Greenpath.”


	36. Running Free, Running Wild

She would have loved to fly through Greenpath, her needle whistling through the air, her duties contained to watching for anyone who could be seeking to disturb Hallownest. It had not been long ago, those days, but it felt like a lifetime. She used to spend so much time here, watching out for wanderers, who would likely come in this way from the Crossroads.

Once, she had watched one of her siblings, their eyes beginning to glow sickly orange, struggle to draw their nail to their chest, to crack their soft carapace open. She had knelt before them, feeling them shake under the hand she steadied them with, and drove the nail in herself. It was rare she encountered Vessels. All but a few had been dead when she found them. Ghost was one of those few. That other sibling, with small, downwards curved horns, was another.

She would find no more. She had seen what remained of her half-siblings. She knew something had gotten rid of their shades, lingering in the Abyss. There was only Ghost, now the god of that baleful place, and Hollow, trapped here either by or against their will. She was not sure which.

It was her, and Hollow, and Ghost. She ought to be happy she had that much.

Before she began her hunt, she made her way to the lake, and the temple by its shores. Someone had been thoughtful enough to prepare sticks of incense, and to leave a small pile of them by the door, for anyone to take and use as an offering.

She plucked one from the pile and approached the altar, leaning over it to touch her stick to another smoldering one. Once hers caught, smoke beginning to stream from it, the scent thick and herbal, she braced it in the sand with the others.

With nothing more than a nod towards the altar, she left again. She did not know when the Mosskin held services, if they did such things here, beyond gatherings like the one she had walked into last time she visited, but she would rather not chance being caught in one again.

Hunting, at least, was familiar. Too familiar. She found that headspace, that state needed to creep and chase and kill, and found it insufficient to keep her mind from wandering.

What would she do about Hallownest? What could be the cause of the morale drop? Had something happened that she needed to investigate? Had this been ongoing, or a sudden thing? If the former, why didn't she notice earlier, and if the latter, again, what caused it?

Was it anything she could solve?

She speared an obble, pulling it back in impaled on her needle, its head almost removed by the force. Whatever was going on might need to involve the construction of a justice system. One the nobility would not find easy to bias.

Perhaps she ought to swallow her pride and talk to the White Lady about matters. She had been one of the last ones to run this kingdom, after all, and she and the Pale King maintained it for centuries before it fell. They had to have found and solved issues that she did not need to repeat. It wasn't like she had Herrah around, nor Vespa.

She didn't even have her father, though she had to admit he, too, would make a useful resource. Though, in all likelihood, he would simply take his kingdom back and do his best to return it to its previous, uninfected state. Which would take Hallownest off her shoulders, but then she would be in the position of ruling a kingdom next door to a wyrm, and she doubted he would go easy on her just because he fertilized her mother's eggs at one point.

Maybe she threw her needle too fast, didn't pay enough attention to her form, because when she speared a mosscreep who dared wander too close, she wrenched her shoulder, or something to that effect. Her face wrenched as she reached back to press at the plates. They bubbled with pain, and she scowled. Great, now she had gone and injured herself while she tried to accomplish her duties. Hallownest and Deepnest both needed food. There were still people who needed her to stop by and share, not to mention her siblings and herself.

She sat down with a heavy sigh. At least she could try and clean her catches thus far, though she winced trying to maneuver the mosscreep into place.

“Ah! Hello, fellow pilgrim.”

She thought she recognized the voice, and when she turned to see a Moss Knight, a one-eyed, sleepy mosscreep cuddled in his arms, she thought she recognized his face, but she could not place it. “And you are?” she asked.

The Knight sat beside her, eyeing the dead mosscreep and stroking the one he held's back. “Breeze. We met at the circle. And this here is Lichen. I've been nursing her back to health.”

Hornet politely moved her kills to the side. She was not sure if the Mosskin were vegetarian, or generally disapproved of outsiders killing the local wildlife. If anything, she would rather not have the living mosscreep and the dead one right by each other. That seemed rather morbid.

“Breeze,” she repeated, watching the mosscreep rather than daring to look him in the eye. For presumably being a wild thing, she was quite tame, snug in her caretaker's arms, her eye almost shut, her breathing steady as she dozed off. Had she actually been a pet, before the infection took hold? As for her owner, she began to recall him, how he talked about losing his son.

“I'm afraid I don't remember your name, fellow pilgrim, if you will grant me it?” Breeze continued to run his fingers through Lichen's mossy coating, reaching deep enough he must have found her actual shell to pet. Every few times he did so, he briefly readjusted her covering, and then kept on going. It wasn't as if she appeared to care.

“Hornet.” That was all he needed to know her as. Surely the rest of her, and what she had said at the circle, told enough of its own story. Which, thinking back to that made her face burn in embarrassment. How could she have crumbled like that? Fled like she was a scared child in the face of a mere dirtcarver?

Breeze eased himself down; his knees and ankles knobbled, puckered and scarred thanks to the infection. Walking must have been miserable, at least for too long. What did bugs who did not molt upon adulthood think of such permanent damage? Was it much different than what spiders thought? She knew her mother had lost two arms at some point and regained them when she was still small. She had always been careful not to get injured like that; she could not guarantee whether she inherited that ability from her mother, if her father had thought to include that in his new form, if he could include that consciously at all.

“How are you doing, Hornet?” he asked, settling in. He almost looked more like a mound of plants than a bug, what with his mossy, leaf-strewn cloak drawn around his shoulders. “It has been some time.”

She sighed. At least he did not try to dig into what had happened at the circle. Not thus far, anyways. Which had to be good enough for now. “Life continues to be... strange. Confusing. But that is the nature of things.”

He nodded and hummed, his gaze focused now on a small stream that had cut through some of the plants and now trickled down freely. “That it is, that it is. Especially in times like these.” He chuckled. “I say that as if I have seen such a calamity before!”

The bitter wistfulness faded, and he said, “Though for me, it is made easier by my companions. We still meet, every few days. Do you have people like that?”

Here was something she knew he would bother her on until she confessed something to his liking. Either that, or she agreed to come back and meet with the other Moss Knights. “I have my siblings, and a family friend.”

Not that she tried to bother any of them much with things. Hollow, she would consult for political matters. They remembered the kingdom better than she did, after all. Midwife had her ways of getting issues out, though there were still matters Hornet wasn't sure how to approach. Particularly taking up her mother's mantle, as she ought to do in a more official manner. Herrah would never return to her place as Queen of Deepnest.

“That's good. We were concerned, after you left. Everyone deserves someone, somewhere, to speak freely, you know? Though I apologize if we made the space uncomfortable.”

She shook her head. “No, I apologize. I overreacted, and my issues are not at all like a...”

His eyes met hers. “Like a normal bug's?”

She did not dare say anything. It was true. She was not normal, in any sense. What Mosskin could claim a sibling coming back from the dead because they were a god?

To her surprise, he huffed, laughing softly. “Everyone likes to think they are not a normal bug, don't they? But here we both are, sitting in the grass, enjoying the products of Unn's dreams. You are hunting, so clearly you know of hunger, the same as I.”

What could she do beside concede? She sighed. “I think there is a line between normal and not, though it is not an easy one to place.”

“Certainly not, but I think one can be all over that line. I know I would find the normalest bug to be strange, for not having any individual quirks or the like.”

She huffed, starting to smile. “That would be a rather boring bug to converse with.” The closest she thought she had ever gotten to that was Lurien's assistant. She did not remember them well, was not even sure whether they survived, but they certainly had been memorable for being so... so much of a stick in the mud. As far as she knew them, anyways.

Lichen chirruped, stretching her legs out and ruffling her mossy covering before sleeping again with a contented sigh. Breeze chuckled, scratching her head. When he lifted his hand away, he gestured towards Hornet. “You can pet her, if you would like. She is remarkably gentle in her nature.”

Cautious, and all too aware of the blood on her, she reached out to pat Lichen on the head. Just a couple quick pats, then she pulled away, rubbing her fingers together. She had never had a pet growing up; some of the other spiders had them, but Herrah had not kept pets, nor did Vespa, and the Pale King would never have done such a thing. She could only imagine his horror if she had brought something home and insisted she get to keep it. Maybe she should have, just to see the look on his face. Though that would involve very unnecessary handling of whatever creature she used, so maybe not.

Lichen did nothing more than twitch when Hornet touched her. How... magical, it felt, to have this creature trust her so, to sleep through being handled. The reception emboldened her, and she reached back to give Lichen a couple more strokes.

“How did you find her?” she asked, unable to summon more than an awestruck whisper, for fear of disturbing the sleeping mosscreep.

“The poor thing was trying to get something to drink. She kept wandering in loose circles, too. So I gave her some water, and saw she was hurt, so I brought her home to tend to her wounds. She's been warm and cuddly ever since.”

After Hornet thought it best to stop, and her hand retreated from the snoozing mosscreep, Breeze asked her, “What do spiders keep for pets?”

“Many things.” There were some things in Deepnest that Weavers kept around, and they spoke of different things from their ancestral home, things that had not made the journey across the wastes. Spiders considered themselves quite good at coexisting with other species, provided those species were willing to coexist; granted, the caste system put limits on those, but her own mother was proof of how it was not always strict.

“You must be from Deepnest, then, a spider such as yourself. How have those lands been faring?” He sounded genuinely interested, not unnerved, not like the words tasted rotten in his mouth. A surprise, coming from a Hallownest bug. Even Lillien, when Hornet had first met the young sentry, spoke its name in awe and fear. Yet that meager difference between how she said it and how the others spoke with disgust was part of their early bond.

She sighed. Beyond that, Deepnest had been struggling back to its feet. There were few left, though more of due to the Weavers' flight than the infection. She knew of almost no surviving children, save for a few only a couple years younger than her. “There is little left, but there is some bare hope the people survived, even if not by staying here.”

Breeze nodded, slowly, his gaze distant and eyes narrowed as if he was trying to recall something. But what? The Weavers' flight? It was all tangled in Hornet's memory, herself, so much arguing back and forth between the Weavers and Vespa. Her anger, that they would leave under this duress, that they would leave her mother, and her vow to stay and protect Hallownest and Deepnest, or what remained of it.

“Were they called back by other gods?” Breeze asked.

She shook her head. The Weavers never spoke of old gods. The net of safety gods cast around them was an attractive place to settle, even if one chose to do so right outside their realm, but that was it. Being nearby meant access to their civilization, their trade and resources, if one needed it. As the Pale King had proved, gods' defensive tendencies meant if another god began causing issues, even if the threat was outside their space, they would step in. No, the spiders had their ancestors. That sufficed for them.

“I wonder what Hallownest shall do, with its gods quieted.” Absentmindedly stroking Lichen's back, Breeze continued, “Unn remains. I believe the Lady remains, does she not?”

“She lives on,” Hornet confirmed.

“So, they remain, but they do not seek to claim the entirety of Hallownest. I have not heard a thing of the Pale King, he seemed most concerned with the populace. Then again, I also know of civilizations that did not follow him, so perhaps the land shall thrive yet.”

“What else can we hope for?” Life had to go on. How angry she would be, to see the Pale King's failures destroy the Hive, or the mantises? It had already separated Deepnest. The other peoples of the land did not deserve to be punished for his wrongdoings.

She stood, gathering her kills. As much as she appreciated the conversation, she needed to continue. She rolled her shoulder, failing to hide a grimace. Ah, it still ached fiercely. She would need to take it slow while she hunted, and on the journey home. Midwife would get her to stay a while after all, while she saw to whatever caused this. How lucky.

“It would be nice,” Hornet said, “To talk more some day.”

Breeze hummed, but by then she had already thrown her needle with her good arm and soon, she was off.

She hit a wall and spasmed, dropping to her knees. Her stomach ached in tandem with her back. What had been a particularly painful jolt had turned into growing pressure, an ache that made her wish to scream. What was this? Why couldn't she get up?

A loud pop sounded, something snapping across her back. The pressure relieved, accompanied by a slow trickling sensation.

She reached back and found her upper back damp. Pulling her hand back, she saw blood. Spider blue blood, flecked with black deeper than night.

Examining the wound again, she managed a small whimper at the feeling of broken carapace. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and she had to get back home.

She just had to get back home.

How long did she wander, in that daze? The world spun around her, occasionally forcing her to her knees. Her breath hitched, barely intaking air because doing so _hurt._ Her cloak clung to her, slick with her blood.

She knew the way back. But it stretched on before her, each step a terrible feat.

She collapsed again. She couldn't rest. To give up, to rest, was to die, she knew that. She had seen that happen. Stillness was the end, but she couldn't get herself to get up again, her arms wobbling as she tried to get up.

Something moved. Something dark and bright, and she reached for her needle, gasping and stopping short when her broken carapace scraped.

Little Ghost hopped up onto the mound she was on. They stared at her for a moment before rounding over to her back. She felt the weight of her needle ease off her back and it thumped to the ground. Little Ghost pushed her cloak up, gentle, piling it up against the back of her neck as best they could.

Small, cool hands rested on her back. The pain ebbed at the touch, only to strengthen when they tried to push the broken plates apart.

She cried out, bursts of light clouding her vision.

A heavier thump. A big, dark figure – no, Hollow - returned her needle to her and scooped her up, resting her against their carapace, cuddling her against jagged scars.

They lumbered onwards. Every time they tilted her, she felt like her mind would fall out of her body, yet it stayed stubbornly connected. Eventually they entered a dark tunnel, and a bell rang out, sharp and loud.

Galloping footsteps rumbled closer, then to a sudden stop. Hollow settled her in the stag's saddle while Little Ghost tapped desperately on a map.

She clutched the seat's fabric as tight as she could while the stag ran and jolted and bounced, cutting through the tunnels. Distantly, she heard Hollow behind them, following along.

The stag stopped and she lost her grip, sliding off the seat to the bottom of the saddle. She groaned, and tried to get up, the stag's voice murmuring words she couldn't discern. Hollow's arm crooked around her middle and they lifted her to their thorax again. She gripped their cloak. Oh. She was going to get blood on it, wouldn't she? They'd worked so hard on it.

“Hollow,” she mumbled, “Put me down.”

They did not listen. They left the station, Deepnest's sounds growing louder outside of the tunnel. They hopped, navigating from ledge to ledge, careful on their feet. She still felt like the world spun all around, flipping every which way, and she tried to bury herself in their embrace, the one steady thing.

They landed at last on the balcony, and brought her inside. Fabric shuffled, and they set her down on a bunched up nest made of sheets. Her needle's weight left again, and they unlatched her spools of thread. Gently they turned her over, stroking the back of her hand as she squirmed in pain before unclasping the collar of her cloak and easing it over her head, the wet fabric dragging up her horns.

Cold. It was cold. She curled up as best she could. A cabinet opened and shut, and Hollow piled another sheet on her, tucking it in.

Darkness swam, until it overtook her vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> **> :3**  
>  _


	37. Wings of Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Some **content warnings** for this chapter, involving body horror and some graphic surgery. Oh, and Midwife talking about her job, so discussion of childbirth/egglaying.
> 
> To avoid that, you'll want to tune out after, _“Where's Hollow?” Hornet asked. She didn't see her siblings anywhere._
> 
> Unfortunately it's at the very end, but there's only a brief mention of what's going on after, _“Careful, now,” Midwife warned._ and then you get the big bit of info reaffirmed.

“Hmm. Well, the bleeding's stopped for now. Poor dear. Hollow, would you be a darling and get me-” Midwife's soft, melodic voice cut off with a shriek.

“Ah, my sincerest apologies for scaring- madam!” Grimm's gravel-heavy voice rose. Desperate flaps told of him retreating to the high ceiling, from where he called, “She knows me!”

A small, angry shriek, and a huff.

Midwife hissed.

“Child, leave her be.”

“That's yours? The siblings' friend?” With a grumble, Midwife conceded, “The resemblance is uncanny. Fine, fine. Come down. I'll not make a meal of you.”

More footsteps and more voices, muffled. Hornet pulled the sheet up to her chin. Her back throbbed still, and it felt like something was stuck under the chitin, like when she got a bad cut and her clothing stuck to the wound. She just wanted to pull the intruding fabric out and rest. Why hadn't Midwife pulled it out? She bit back a whine.

A door opened. The voices grew louder. Midwife curled around her, dozens of legs pressing into the silken nest.

Little Ghost's footsteps pattered in first. They hopped over Midwife – much to her displeasure but she could not do much about siblings wishing to check on each other – and patted Hornet's cheek.

She opened an eye, staring up at their vine-laced mask. Above them, and beyond Midwife's coils, Grimm gazed down at her with pity, or sympathy, she couldn't tell, his glowing eyes soft. Hollow had taken up post by the door, and now watched as others entered.

“I'm not sure what could upset our friend enough to- aaugh!” Cornifer cried out, as did Iselda, and the two stumbled back as Midwife shifted. A couple more uncomfortable and scared gasps sounded from near them.

“Leave them be,” Hornet croaked. She sounded awful, almost as awful as Grimm. Whoever Ghost brought back, if it included Cornifer and Iselda, it couldn't be all bad. Though they did also bring Grimm, for whatever reason.

“Now, if you're inviting guests over, it's right and proper for me to meet them too, isn't it, dear?”

Quirrel, of all people, spoke up next, trying to sound jovial, though a more than small helping of fear laced his words. “Ah! You must be...”

“Midwife. I've been taking care of Hornet since she was an egg waiting to be laid, and Hollow since she brought them back home. The little one seems plenty self-sufficient. Yourself?”

“Quirrel. I used to tutor her.”

Midwife laughed, the vibration making Hornet wince. “Quirrel! Yes, yes, Herrah spoke of you. She told the funniest story of you helping to pry Hornet here off of – oh, what was his name? Lurien! Lurien, it was, who became victim to tiny spider bites. Then you almost got nipped yourself.” A leg stroked the top of Hornet's head. “She was quite the biter. What of the rest of you?”

Hornet, having buried her face in the sheets as if that would hide her embarrassment, almost didn't want to hear who else had gotten that story. But the introductions went round.

“Nailmaster Mato. Ghost here found us all – all but Quirrel, he joined us later – and seemed very distressed about something, which I did not expect from such a stoic bug.”

“Cornifer.”

“Iselda.” Both the couple sounded terrified, though it wasn't like Midwife had done anything to them, forcing them to be polite as they could be.

“And I,” Grimm paused. Hornet was quite certain he had bowed. “Am Troupe Master Grimm, most humbly at your service, my fine lady.”

Midwife giggled, creating more uncomfortable vibrations. “I know humility when I see it, and there's not a bit there. Now, beyond flattery, I imagine Ghost brought you all here to see their sister?”

Hornet peered out from the sheets when Midwife uncurled from her, backing up so the others could see her. So many eyes on her, from her siblings and from the others, all so intent.

Iselda approached first, sitting cross-legged before her. Her hands gripped the undersides of Hornet's arms and she pulled her halfway into her lap, head propped on her abdomen. Hornet couldn't gather the strength to protest beyond a groan.

“Is that blood?” Iselda asked. She frowned, and slowly peeled the sheet off Hornet's back.

She gasped. The others, all concerned, immediately gathered around, Cornifer and Quirrel forced to shoulder their way past Mato to get a look, while Grimm stared from the back of the group. Hollow purposely did not look, but Ghost squeezed in to sit beside Iselda and Hornet.

“What happened to her?”

“Oh, that looks like it hurts.”

“Is it still oozing?”

“What is that black in her blood?”

“Ah, the king's tampering did that part. Unfortunate. It would be for the best to try and not touch the black, if possible. Though it seems she has countered it, in some way. I've not been able to figure it out,” Midwife said. “At first I thought it was simply the beginning of a molt, but she's molted perfectly fine before, and never did her shell crack this deep.”

“I was just walking when it happened.” Hornet squirmed, the discomfort rising, sticking her full of pins and needles. “Is something stuck in it?”

“Stuck?” Iselda turned her onto her stomach, and began conversing with Cornifer. The adults all peered closer, muttering to each other about the broken shell.

Mato touched the upper back plate, making it throb. He started to lift it and Hornet screamed, tears welling.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry!” He patted her arm, mumbling more apologies.

“No, hold on.” Cornifer adjusted his glasses. He laid down, sort of, awkwardly positioning himself to try and get a closer look at the wound without touching it. “I don't know if it's just fluids or not, but I thought I saw something.”

So there was something in there. Hornet held Iselda tighter. Some foreign thing had, at some point, buried itself in her body, and she couldn't tell what.

“If I may.”

The others, save Iselda and Midwife, backed off as Grimm approached. A warm wing covered her, like a makeshift surgical tent. He snapped, and a small fire glowed, hot, almost searing against her back. “Apologies,” he said. “This is a theory where proof may be painful to get.”

He drew the flame around her back, warming it, before a finger pried under the plating.

Hornet squeezed Iselda, choking on the pain. Iselda stroked the underside of her head, trying to whisper soothing things. They did nothing for the pain, for the feeling Grimm was about to rip the plating right off, or it would tear off on its own.

He set it down, leaving a stinging, throbbing ache all up and down her shoulders and back. “I was correct.”

“What theory was worth hurting her like that?” Mato asked. He approached again, big and huffy against the powerful, yet dying, Higher Being.

“Maybe she is molting?” Quirrel posited as he knelt again, taking up the spot Little Ghost had been in. “Why would it be going wrong now?”

“Simple,” Grimm said. “Her father had wings, yes?”

The room went quiet. Hornet's mind, already scattered from everything going on, ground to a halt. No. No, no, no, it couldn't be.

“It appears they've not emerged, but they should. If someone could get some water and washcloths? Midwife, do you have much in the way of tools of your trade? Perhaps some could be of use here.”

“Back in my den. I'll see to getting them.” Midwife wound around the crowd and out of the room, faster than most would expect such a large bug to go.

“So, she'll be able to fly?” Mato sat down where Midwife had been. He ran a hand up and down one of Hornet's horns, attempting to soothe her. Tired as she was, she leaned into his touch; it was far more pleasant than everyone digging at her back. At her wing buds. She was growing wings. “Wouldn't that be fun, huh? You'll be all over the place! And I'm sure you'll feel so much better once they're out and we can get them drying off.”

He paused, and hummed a low note. “Does anyone here know how to take care of wings?”

Hornet didn't. The only things in Deepnest with them were the mature dirtcarvers, and those weren't easy to find, generally holed up in larger caverns that were well away from the village. Spiders did not, as a rule, have wings. Even at the palace, most of the beings lacked them. The retainers had none. The wingmoulds were artificial, though she had once been given a broken one, drained of the Void powering it, to play with and take apart. Not that it gave her more than a mechanical idea of how they worked. The sentries sometimes grew them, she'd spoken to Lillien about it some, but her visits with them were rare.

Her father... what had she seen him do with his wings? They were gossamer thin, shining with a rainbow of colors when they caught the light, almost invisible otherwise. Most of the time, he kept them tucked against his back. She had tried to play with them, when she was small, and he would flick them out of her way, and tell her to stop, she was not to touch them, and certainly not to grab them. Had it stung and ached when she did so, like everything did now? Had she been, against all odds, hurting him?

“I'm sure we can ask some of the city sentries. I mean you no offense, Master Grimm, but I think your wings and hers will be... rather different.” Quirrel gave Grimm an apologetic smile.

Grimm smiled back, everyone else leaning away from him. “Oh, most certainly. Let us first focus on bringing them to their proper, full-fledged state, though.”

“Funny,” Iselda said, once she had calmed a little, “Hollow doesn't have wings. Do you think they never grew them or-” Her arms tightened around Hornet. “Do you think they got clipped?”

“Where's Hollow?” Hornet asked. She didn't see her siblings anywhere.

“Getting water with Cornifer.” Grimm sat down, leaning against the plinth. He took a deep, rattling breath, Grimmchild settling on his shoulder with a _mrrr._ He reached up to stroke their cheek and said, “If their wings were clipped, if it could be called a clipping, it would have been right at the base, or whomever did the job reached in to their back to remove them in a way that left the plating around them to heal over the buds.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to think about it. Someone holding down Hollow (not that they would need to be held down, they would take the amputation just like they took everything else) while somebody else pried up their back, strands of gooey Void dripping down. A heavy pair of scissors, pushed as deep as they could go, before they cut through wings just like the Pale King's, cutting through whatever served as nerve and muscle, pulling out the severed wing, and moving on to the next.

Midwife would be working in that same place, pulling and perhaps cutting away at her flesh. Hornet replaced Hollow, Midwife replaced the hazy figures, and her nascent wings got snipped and plucked free.

“Oh, Hornet, what's wrong?” Iselda rubbed her face, and Mato also renewed his effort to pet her horns.

“Don't cut my wings off,” she pleaded.

“Of course not. Ah, here they are. Thank you very much.” Grimm accepted a bucket of water from Cornifer and a small pile of washcloths from Ghost. Hollow offered some towels, and Grimm set them under his arm before turning to Hornet and Iselda. “Could you roll onto your side? Let's see about getting something under you.”

Iselda helped her, holding her steady while Grimm shoved towels under her, reaching around to pull on them from the other side until they were all straightened out. The two eased her back onto her stomach. Humming, Grimm set his hands around the bucket and focused, the glow of his eyes intensifying.

Quirrel, Iselda, Cornifer, and Mato all leaned over to watch as the water began to bubble and simmer.

“That should be good enough.” Grimm unwrapped the pile of washcloths and picked out a piece of soap Ghost had thrown in. He dunked the cloth in the water and scrubbed soap onto it. With all the care one would give an egg, he dabbed at Hornet's back, the warm water and soap cutting through the bloody mess. The touch hurt, but the warmth felt nice.

“You've got magic beyond teleportation, Mister Grimm?” Cornifer asked, leaning in the slightest bit. The general fear the bugs seemed to hold around Grimm faded, replaced by curiosity.

Grimm smiled again, and it was only a little disconcerting. “It comes with the territory. I find it quite useful for shows. Does that feel better, Hornet?”

“It's warm.” She sort of wished she could be lying on the sheets, not towels, but this was all right for now.

Grimm was finishing his cleaning when Midwife returned. She shooed Mato out of her way and laid out a series of surgical instruments, all in a protective case. She assessed Grimm's cleanup work with an approving hum, before producing a chunk of her own soap and giving it to him, telling him to make another pass with that. And a different washcloth, mind you.

“Drink this. It's for the pain.” Midwife offered a small flask to Hornet.

The idea of however the medicine could have tasted made Hornet screw up her face, but she had no choice. Not unless she wanted to be even more miserable than she already was. She opened the flask and, before she had a chance to get a whiff of its scent, downed it all, shaking her head and coughing after she swallowed. It burned, all down her mouth and throat and into her stomach. She dropped the flask, trying to focus on breathing cooler, fresher air and not spitting all over Iselda to get the taste out of her mouth.

Soon enough, the world began feeling woozy, and distant. She laid down again, cuddling up with Iselda, letting Mato pet her horn and Quirrel take her hand, rubbing the back of it.

“I want Father,” she mumbled. He would know what to do. He could tell her how to take care of her wings, or why she was getting them in the first place. He could teach her to fly, maybe, once she felt better.

“Well, that's a first. Grimm, if you could provide some lighting?” Tools clicked as Midwife picked them out.

A flame lit behind her, glowing bright and with that pinkish color, same as his eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “I meant the candles. That works, too.”

“Should we leave you to your work?” Quirrel asked.

Midwife laughed. She loved to laugh. She laughed so much. Her laugh sounded so nice. Her whole voice sounded nice. Soothing. Could she sing her a lullaby, like when she was a spiderling? “If you're a squeamish sort. I'm used to it, working around people. Some Weavers, I swear, they try to fit the whole extended family in the den when one of them's laying. And they get so nervous. Once, one of them was trying to lay an egg much too big for her to get out. I had to wade through all the siblings and cousins to get to her because they were all trying to fuss.”

Hornet felt her back get pulled at again. It hurt, distantly, and she didn't feel well enough to respond.

“You, big one, Mato dear, could you keep her legs pinned? She shouldn't be moving much but if she does. Anyways, I thought this Weaver was going to either pop her egg or turn herself inside out with all the straining. I knew I'd have to operate, and that her family wouldn't leave me alone. Sure enough, there I was making incisions and delivering her eggs with all them hovering over me. On the ceiling, on the walls, right beside me, all over the place. At least one held a lantern when I asked.”

A tool slid in between her plates. Mato's hands settled on her knees, holding her down. Hornet whimpered. Quirrel squeezed her hand. Cornifer rubbed her shoulder. Ghost peeked out from behind Iselda, watching everything going on.

Where was Hollow?

“Ah, but those species like dear Hornet's mother, they're tough ones. Weavers aren't nearly as prone to lashing out as they are. And stubborn! Grimm, where did you see that wing?”

A little mumbling, and the tool arced, catching on some of that foreign thing – her wing. It caught on her wing, and pulled. She felt it sliding free from where it was embedded, all trapped and crumpled.

With a satisfied “Ah!” Grimm pulled it all the way out her back and it hit the cool air, the dampness on it growing frigid. A flame waved over it, warming it to a tolerable state.

Cornifer hummed, leaning in a bit, only for Midwife to push him back. “Did some of it break off? It looks short.”

“The edge isn't torn,” Grimm said. “This may be it for now.”

The tool, reinserted into her back, searched around again. It made her stomach flip, and her breaths became shallow to combat it.

“You'll be all right, dear. As I was saying, yes, such stubborn things. As are their hybrids with wyrms, it turns out. I suspected it would happen. All the while she was laying, Herrah talked and talked about how she was going straight to the White Palace after to tell the Pale King about it. She finally gets the egg out and as soon as she and I confirm it's in good shape, she's off wobbling out the door. Nothing I could do stopped her, not even trying to drag her back and telling her she'd be staying put until I was certain that was the only egg in her. Turned out it was, lucky for her. Funny, isn't it? Just the one. And a big one it was. I swear yours absorbed all the others or something, Hornet, and you ate them up.”

Iselda was making a face. Quirrel might have been, too, he at least made a noise. Mato shifted his grip.

Grimm extracted another wing on the same side, slithering it out of her back and under the other. It stuck to her carapace, just as damp and cold. “I think that's the only ones on that side.”

“I want Mama,” Hornet mumbled as Grimm probed around again. If nothing else, she wanted to climb into bed and snuggle with her like when she was small, warm and snug against her, and listen to her sing. To be held in all her arms, fingers buried in Mama's fur. All this wing business needed to be over. All this Dreamer and infection business, too.

She wanted to show Mama her new wings. She needed to see them, and to see all her needle work. She needed to know Hollow was okay, and that Hornet had another sibling, a small one who liked to jump all around just like she used to. She hiccuped, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Mama needed to know she was growing up.

She didn't want to grow up. Growing up had taken Mama from her, and Vespa, and even Father and Stepmother. It tried to take Hollow, too.

Iselda cooed. Cornifer brushed the tears away, and reached for something before Midwife said no eating or drinking, it would disturb their work.

“I can go get Hollow when all this over,” Quirrel offered.

“Ah! I might get two at once.” Grimm coaxed out more wings with small strokes. They made slimy, wet sounds as he moved them, and whatever hit Hornet's back felt more gooey than fluid like blood.

“Careful, now,” Midwife warned.

With one last, gut-tangling sensation of something being pulled from her flesh, Grimm laid out her wings, teasing them apart so they could dry better. He leaned in, his warmth radiating out and making her feel more comfortable in the cool air. She pushed her face into Iselda's abdomen when he pried at her back again, holding the flame closer.

“I think that's it. Four wings, for the star of the show.” Grimm sat up, his flame dimming. “Didn't her father have six?”

“He did, and Herrah had none, so I'm not much questioning the math here.” Midwife patted Hornet's back, sopping up the various fluids that had leaked out. She set the damp, blood-streaked cloths aside before giving Hornet's head a few strokes. “There you go, dear. All better?”

“I wanna go to sleep.”

“Then do so, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy for all those folks who guessed Hornet was growing wings/new limbs in general, you were correct! Congrats! Alas, it seems they're not all the way done cooking. (Gotta plan ahead for Silksong, see what that has in store, amirite?)


	38. To Rearrange

She woke up to soft, cool breaths against her face, and a huge arm curled protectively around her. She also woke to a headache, and a backache, and it was cold. She nestled into the sheets she laid in, groaning. Everything felt so stiff, so worn. Soft chatter murmured all around her, growing a little when she moved.

She cracked open her eyes to see Hollow's face right above hers. Hm. She could see their chelicerae. Tired, and not much into the idea of impulse control, she (slowly, with all the aches) reached out and poked at their chelicerae, giggling when they twitched and worked. They looked just like hers. She tickled them, and would have laughed more if her back didn't hurt so much. Still, she grinned as Hollow play-nibbled on her hand.

Another cold body cuddled against her and she lifted her head to see Little Ghost curled up, staring at her. They batted at her, squirming forwards until they could reach her chelicerae.

“Careful, Ghost,” Midwife admonished. “She does have spider's fangs and venom. I've not a clue what it would do to your sorts but generally the outcome isn't pleasant.”

Hollow reached out, distracting their clutchmate by tapping at Ghost's head and horns with their chelicerae. It worked, and Ghost crawled up to play with them. Hollow held them to their thorax and rolled onto their back so they could kick and wiggle as much as they wanted without bothering Hornet.

“Shall we start wet towel duty?” Grimm asked. He stood up, slowly, pausing to rub his side once he was up.

“I can do it.” Mato fetched the bucket, a quarter drained of water, and some of the towels.

Hornet frowned. Why would they need towels? She didn't feel like she was bleeding. “Don't wings need to dry?”

“They do, and yours are well on their way there. Stuck molt, however, requires a different approach.” Grimm set to heating the water, eyes almost shut. Grimmchild napped on top of his head, spitting embers in their dreams.

Stuck molt? She had to go through an entire molt? It wasn't just wings? Which- they were real. They were still there. She had wings. She had wings, and a headache, and she just wanted to lie here so she could warm up.

“So it seems. Have you not molted since the stasis ended?” Quirrel had gotten comfortable sitting with Cornifer and Iselda, both of the males tiny beside her. He wore a look of concern, and was busy wringing one of the unused washcloths. It wasn't even wet, it looked like they'd given it to him so he could worry it.

She shook her head. Of course she'd not molted. There wasn't time to hide away and molt.

“Of course she hasn't. She's been so busy running around, she's managed to run away from her own molts! Now she needs to molt, and she can't. She won't stay and take care of herself, and now she's lucky it's not too late. Who knows what would have happened if nobody had freed her wings up?” Midwife, with too many people around for her to pace comfortably, settled for sitting up and preening herself, sliding her mask aside to tidy her face. The other bugs studiously did not look.

Mato shoved the towel he held into the bucket. Water showered down as he lifted it out, and wrung out the excess before approaching Hornet. He sat beside her, wrapping her up while he sat her up, holding her against his side. He kept her wings and upper back uncovered, though he scrubbed her shoulders a bit. She wanted to protest, and say that she had her arms pinned by the hot, damp towel, but she knew she could escape if she wanted, Nailmaster or no.

“This is the best method we could devise to help the process along,” Grimm explained, setting the bucket aside. He pulled his wings aside as Ghost hopped up beside him, stretching as far as they could go to peer at Grimmchild. “It's been so long that your shell is unwilling to come free, so the idea is a warm and humid covering will loosen it until you shed.”

She scowled, chelicerae working. She didn't feel like she had to molt. It had been some time, but surely that would be noticeable. All right, so she hadn't been eating, really, but she was busy. There was no time, and she had no appetite. She would be fine for a while. “And if I do not molt? Additionally, why do you need-” She took a moment to count. “ _Eight_ people to accomplish something I can do myself?”

“The fluid building up in your joints says you are, in fact, molting.” Without her mask covering her face, Midwife's admonishment was plain to see, her eyes boring embarrassment into Hornet's cheeks. “Don't you be thinking I'll be leaving you to it, either. None of this infection business could get rid of me, your little sibling couldn't do it, now that you're staying put you can't do it, either. As for the others...”

“We're here to help,” Iselda said, resolute despite her warm smile.

Cornifer nodded fast enough he needed to readjust his glasses. “We've been hoping to get through to you, but you're always running every which way, you've been impossible to pin down long enough to visit with, or feel we're making much headway.”

“And we know something's wrong,” Iselda added, both of the couple nodding.

Mato hummed, and said, “When Ghost came to find me, acting so different, I knew this was something worthy of going forth. They are my family, and you are their family, and...” He squeezed her shoulder. “I cannot understate how important it is to attend to that.”

“Now that you're not trying to kill me, it is good to see a familiar face.” Quirrel tried to smile, but perhaps their fight was still rather fresh. “I'm happy to lend a hand however it's needed. It's-” His gaze grew distant. “It means a lot, being able to help.”

“As for myself, I am basking in the knowledge I was right about you being shorted in the fussing and nagging department, and now I am here to make up the deficit.” Grimm laughed, almost inaudible, and what sound he did make was hoarse and thin. Moreso than usual. “With everyone here so concerned about your well-being, too, how could I not attend?”

She gave him an extra frown, but was interrupted by Hollow sitting up, now freed from their sibling. Even hunched over, head craned down to try and meet her eyes, they dominated her view.

They leaned in, at first unsteady but they gained confidence and the movement grew fluid, relaxed, even with all the others in the room. They nuzzled her, mask tapping against the top of her head and her horns. Upon finding a comfortable pose they stayed like that, weighted but not too heavy on her, steady but not imposing.

She squirmed away from Mato, freeing one of her hands to try and reach around them, let them know she was there for them, too. But they intercepted, reaching for her instead. She grasped their thumb, and just managed to touch her fingertips together around it.

They brushed the side of her head, and everything felt... everything felt like home.

Mato, with a heavy sigh and a chuckle, tucked the towel around Hornet again, patting her shoulder and reaching up to pat Hollow's head, too, mindful of the crack in their mask. “You're all very good at sapping the heat out of these, we'll have to warm that one up again soon.”

“She's always run cold, it's not so much of a surprise if you've ever touched her siblings' carapaces. Or her father's, so Herrah told me. So it seems it just runs in the family. Oh, Ghost, your friend is sleeping. Let them sleep.” Midwife stopped preening and, with the slightest bob of her head, snapped her mask back in place, its calm, unshakable smile returning.

“They're a heavy sleeper, it'll be fine.” Grimm laughed. He reached up, and Grimmchild made a sleepy noise. Hornet could not see what was going on well, not with Hollow in the way, but she heard a couple people shifting and Grimm muttering some sort of instructions.

“That's so cute,” Iselda cooed, sounding almost on the verge of tears.

“I'm surprised they fit in their arms,” Cornifer said.

Quirrel chuckled. “Hardly! Look at them trying to watch where they're going. Careful, my friend!”

Ghost wandered their way around Hollow, and that was when Hornet saw what they were up to. They held Grimmchild in their arms, their friend's back sagging where they couldn't quite provide enough support. Even with them bundled up, Ghost could barely peer over Grimmchild.

Hollow's hand flew from Hornet's horn to support Grimmchild as Ghost half dropped them, half placed them into Hornet's lap.

They yawned, revealing sharp but small teeth and a mouth tinged pink, then curled up again. And oh, they were warm. It was like holding a fire to yourself, albeit one buffered by plenty of material, so the heat leeched out with only the vague idea that it could escape and burn you.

“Most clever,” Grimm said with a smile. “A portable heat source.”

“They won't cover the entire towel, but that is an improvement. Good work, my student.” Mato patted Ghost between their horns, his hand finding plenty of space in the wide gap between them. Once, Hornet had accompanied her father to his workshop and found a stack of old designs for Hollow's armor, starting from when they had been Ghost's size. It had been so strange, to see them with the same proportions she'd had at the time, and to watch their growth. Judging from those, if Ghost grew at all, they would have that rounded, childish face for many molts yet. Good for patting on the head, so Mato discovered.

She sighed, curving away from Grimmchild to give Mato room to cautiously reach in and scratch them behind a horn, keeping half an eye on Grimm all the while. Maybe Ghost would never molt, and be spared this misery. Maybe if they did, everyone would have calmed down some and there would not need to be an entire parade's worth of people in her home making sure they were growing right.

“How old is the child, Mister Grimm?” Cornifer asked.

“Oh, not very old at all. But they are hale and hearty in their youth, and that is what matters.” Grimm flicked a wrist, as if this were not a conversation between a mortal and the vessel of a god. “They are growing fast, these times do go by so shortly.”

“Don't they always.” Midwife sighed, a wistful sound. She curled up again, resting her head on her coils. From the way she sat, head listing to the side, her mask's smile... it would have felt sad, if it could change at all. “They're always out there growing up, moving on. With my profession, I'd never had an empty nest, at least. Not until this whole infection business. Now I've got some back but _one of them_ keeps _running off_ just like she used to.”

“Like she used to?” Grimm asked. Hornet could hear the grin on his face and she narrowed her eyes.

Midwife nodded. “Oh, yes. Such an escape artist, that one. She must be quite tired to have not slipped away already. I couldn't tell you how many times one of the Devout or a Weaver led her back to my den before I even knew she was gone. When she began staying with her father, he would often send letters back with her detailing what new trouble she'd gotten into. What a mess he saw it as.” She giggled. “He started devising methods to contain her and we'd get updates on how those kept failing! He gave up within a year. What are some of those stories...” It took Midwife a moment to recall them, but once she did she launched right into stories about the Pale King's automatons, Great Knights, various devices, weighted belts and bracelets designed to tire her out for easier capture, and the inevitable discovery of Hornet somewhere she was not supposed to be.

Mato's laugh was a hearty chortle. Iselda, Cornifer, and Quirrel all sounded slightly nervous, but as Hornet wished she could hide her face in her hands their laughter grew warmer. Ghost went to sit beside the mapmaker couple, bouncing a leg as they listened. Hollow looked almost tired, shoulders slouching and head bobbing along to the stories. Even if they were not there for any particular incident, they would have heard about the most recent instance of their sister finding her way into whatever room one of the royals were holding an important meeting in. The White Lady would simply hold her, as the stories went, but the Pale King would end up in wrestling matches with his young daughter. On rare, lucky occasions, it ended in his defeat and her spending the rest of court either clutching his back or in his arms, trying to play with the scrolls and tablets in front of him.

“If only I had realized you were such a kindred spirit, Hornet!” Cornifer said as Midwife wrapped up the last of the stories. His smile had grown comfortable as she went on, the centipede continuing not to bite or threaten any of the guests. “I would do the same thing as a child. As soon as I hatched, I was wandering off!”

“Oh, I'm certain she would have done the same if she hadn't fallen right asleep and given us all a mighty scare instead. She didn't wake up until Herrah put her in Hollow's arms, despite all our trying to get her to move or show some other sign of life. Stubborn thing.” Even for all the love Midwife spoke with, it did nothing to ease Hornet's embarrassment. It may have even contributed, though it was hard to tell what was making it better or worse at this point. Did she not realize how many people were there? That she was already tired and wrapped up in a towel that was starting to get on the cold side, despite Grimmchild's presence?

“How are you feeling?” Mato asked, keeping his voice low while Midwife conversed with the others. He paused, and grunted, blotting away something beginning to leak from her back. At this angle, she didn't know if it was more blood or just the fluid that built up before a molt.

...How was she supposed to answer? So much had happened in such a short time. She still had work to do, she needed to ensure the city bugs were doing all right. How could she have neglected them like that? But here she was, stuck at home partway through a molt. Maybe she needed to get Ghost to get to work, maybe that could at least encourage some improvements in her absence.

“It's okay if the answer is 'not well.'” Mato's encouragement was gentle, and his eyes held such sincerity. But would it be okay? Could she afford not to be well? She had people to be strong for.

And they were all gathered here because she's fumbled, and shown weakness. They had taken action, come together despite all their disparities – and many had not met each other at all. Cornifer and Iselda had braved being in Deepnest. Grimm left his Troupe, and Mato his hut far from everything else. Quirrel came despite their... tense reintroduction. Hollow had settled enough to self-express. Ghost, whom she had twice tried to kill, and who had taken her mother to her grave, had brought everyone here all together.

“...I'm tired,” she answered at last. It felt like such a simple thing, two words, stating something so basic. But now, sitting still, she realized how deeply true it was. How every part of her felt wrung out, and worn. How long had she been guarding a ruin, constantly vigilant for her siblings to try and get in and take apart what little Hallownest had left? How long had she taken the weight of its regrowth on her shoulders, hardly ever sticking in one place long enough to see her efforts pay off at all?

“I imagine.” Mato rubbed her shoulder, pulling a little extra at the joint. Seeing if it would shed, then. It did not, and he peeled the now cool towel off and tumbled Grimmchild into her lap, leaving her to simultaneously shudder at the cold air and cringe from Grimmchild's warmth. “Let's get this warmed up again.”

...Yes. She was tired. So tired. And right now, nothing sounded better than being wrapped up in a warm towel and left to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, there we go! Hopefully we're starting in on the fluffier side of the program. I'm still planning on there being Feels(tm), but now I am hoping to reinforce the characters' better habits, or at least make them know they need to form better habits. (Looking at you, Hornet.) 
> 
> Things are starting to wrap up on my side of the page. I have... 115,486 words on the doc as of me writing this note on Sunday evening. It doesn't match up perfectly with the AO3 version, because of things like fun fact! That scene way back in the beginning with Hollow falling and Hornet stabbing Iselda? That was added on the fly! It's not in my original document.
> 
> So. It's still kind of episodic in nature in the future. I think this turned out more slice-of-life-y and plotting isn't my strong suit, I will admit. I've got some things I want to cover, some folks to revisit (Hello, City folk! And Radiance!), and I'm not sure when I'll be done, but generally, soonish from where I am. I know what like, my last big thing will be. And I think I know how I want to end it. I've just got to figure out what all the events between now and then are.


	39. It's Only Love

Hornet didn't nuzzle into Mato's side as she drifted off to sleep. Of course she would not; even with everything going on, it was a relief she let herself nod off and lean against him as she did so.

Hollow did not dare readjust her towel, or the sheets she sat on, lest they be too cold. The knot growing in their abdomen tightened, their focus fading.

What had their molts been like? It had been so long. They had newly molted to adult form when Father and Herrah struck their deal, years ago even without the stasis. The tiredness – not tired, simply running out of energy faster, their limbs losing the capability to obey commands – no, they had been tired.

The thought tightened the knot more.

The very presence of such a discomfort brought about an urge to grasp their mask, to pull at the base of the horns until the crack widened and split entirely, just to relieve the building pressure. Everything, everything built it up, without any release in sight.

Focus on the conversation. Midwife telling Cornifer and Iselda that Hornet used to weave, and that she ought to return to the hobby. Her offer to find some of Hornet's old pieces, show them off. Enthusiastic agreements. Quirrel snapping and recalling a time she was under his tutelage and wove all through the lesson. Garpedes rumbled in the distance. The candles all flickered and bobbed, all around Herrah's deathbed. Where she had lain, imprisoning them, along with Quirrel's dear teacher, and reclusive Lurien.

Their sister's mother. Their jailer. Another knot, a tangle in their very shade.

Everything was so loud. Nobody would stop talking, the conversation flying all around their head. Deepnest crawled and rumbled all around. A hundred little movements begged for their attention, all while the knots tried to pull them into an implosion.

They needed to get up, and get out. They couldn't do this here, not with Hornet in the state she was in. For a moment they almost expected to plant two hands on the floor as they pushed upright, almost ending up in a roll instead of on their feet.

The conversation faltered as they stood. A common occurrence, around people who did not know them. They kept their head down, hunched their back until they would have been almost eye level with Iselda. Quiet, demure, that kept people comfortable.

They stepped out as their hand began to tremble and grow clumsy. Their carapace's weight grew in intensity, until it was the most they could do to slip into that room where Father and Herrah negotiated Hornet's birth, all those years ago.

Why had they done that? Why had they been so outright? They should have known it would lead to this, was it not better to keep things calm and be able to stay in the room with the others? This anxiety crawling all through them was their fault and theirs alone. They needed to be there for their sister, she needed someone there for her. She had gone so long putting everything on herself. They needed to- they needed to-

They slid down the wall, until they could rest their forehead on their knees. The mere act of daring to have a physical body felt like a cruelty, one they could not abandon. So many siblings, buried in the Abyss, finally at rest. Their shades had driven Hollow upwards when the Pale King awaited his Pure Vessel at the chasm's edge. All born for one thing. All killed for it. And together, they had succeeded.

Ghost could have rested. Hollow never got the chance. They dug their fingers into their mask, bright pain radiating from the crack. This shell trapped them. They were bound. There were always binds. Always, always binds. Orders. Chains. Carapace. In the end, they were one and the same.

Something cold, not wet, but not dry, beaded and blobbed from the crack. Their arm ached, their mask screamed in pain. They were pulling themself apart.

Everything went cold. They swatted at the stray bubble of Void, already floating up and out of reach. No, no, they needed that back. They couldn't release their shade. They had siblings here, and a mother, and as the other room indicated a growing network of people happy to call them their own. Eternal nothing sounded as much a prison as eternal dream.

“Ah, I thought I felt the pull of my realm.” When had the door opened? When had Grimm entered? How could they have let their guard down so badly? And to think, all they could do was paw at the Void slipping through their fingers and try to hold it against their mask, as if reabsorbing it was that simple.

A warm hand settled on their shoulder as Grimm eased himself down with an undignified grunt and a grimace. His other hand remained at his side, kneading it as he tried to breathe deep. “Your sibling needs to finish the task they brought us here for, loathed an admittance as that is.” He managed a gasp, and a trailing sigh. “But that is not the matter at hand.”

They watched him. What did he have to say? What did he expect?

“They got all concerned, after you left.” Grimm's face contorted into a smile. “Wonderful to feed on. Though it would be a lie to say that this endeavor has been anything but invigorating.” His eyes fell on them. He did not stare into the sockets of their mask, did not seek anything out in their visage. “I am simply a being of my nature, if that is your concern. I helped, did I not?”

They did not respond. He continued, as if this did not faze him in the least. Perhaps it didn't. “You're upset. You've been upset.”

They bowed their head. This was their sister's time, not theirs. She needed the help more than they. How long had she been avoiding it, while they rested in Weaver silk sheets? Now they could hardly be there for her. She had been so _happy,_ so _comfortable,_ when they held her. She deserved to be happy and comfortable.

“Is it about your sister?”

Nothing.

“Yourself?”

Nothing.

“Ah. Both, then, and more. Such things are often so complicated.” Grimm leaned back against the wall, shutting his eyes. “Where shall I start? My sister? Your parents? Your father in particular? Myself?”

This was, somehow, intended to stop the roiling in their gut? They had attempted distraction. It did not work. But at the same time, they could not bring themself to stand up and leave for somewhere else, somewhere they would not be bothered.

“A family tale any way it goes. I would say my sister, back when she was herself, not this twisted and angry thing, was like yours. But that would not be correct, for their similarities end at that deep drive to protect one's own, and that is common to gods and many Higher Beings in general.”

His smile became a wry grin. “It was the Heart that drove the split between her realm and mine. She did not appreciate her moths being taught most viscerally of fear, trauma, and the horrible things in the world. The Heart lost the grand battle, and found itself in need of a host before its only life was in memories.”

“Myself – my ancestor, we are all as one – proved perfect to heed its call. Who more perfect to host a being of flame than one burning to his death?” Grimm exhaled, stroking his side again, the movements of his arm just visible below his wings. “It reshaped me. As your father did to you, it seems. Each had a need to fulfill, and here we both are, lovingly crafted. I cannot speak to your experience of it, but it was most strange, to me, this new body.”

They had never known any other. The hatchling that would have emerged from the egg was dead. Hollow had its same consciousness, but it was long gone. All that remained of that hatchling, as was true of all the Pale King's children, was a pale mask, and hints of their mother's face in it.

“We argued, the Heart and I. It was necessary. None of this would have worked without it.” Grimm gestured to himself, then slowed, and nodded. “But you were not the Heart's. You were the Radiance's.”

They squeezed their leg. Their head hurt too much, they felt more Void bubbling up through the irritated crack, touching it would only hurt more.

“Nobody could have been a proper Vessel for her, believe me. No, believe us, the Heart and I. She is too determined to be in charge for such a relationship to work. Her anger precluded it as it stands.” A hand found theirs, fingers intertwining. Hollow was cold, always would be, yet Grimm remained steadfastly warm. Hot, even.

They were not a mere Vessel. They were a prison. One did not negotiate with the cell one was jailed in. Their purpose was not negotiation.

“Lifeless things cannot hold gods. To seek to create an empty Vessel and have it work, let alone one borne of life itself, is to seek to create a cup without a bottom and expect it to hold a drink.” Their hands raised, brushing the side of their face, hot and cold together at once. “You are as much alive as any other in this den. Celebrate it. There is nothing so precious as one's own self.”

They tightened their grip. Only a little bit, just enough it may well have been a simple, random impulse in nerves they did not truly have.

“See that? Do you feel it? That is beautiful. You are to be cherished. Tell me, lovely life, who are you?”

Who were they?

They glanced away. They did not know. They were child, sibling, Vessel, protector. Failed protector. A monument to a time long gone. They were a patient, a case to be watched as they recovered. Hollow Knight. Pure Vessel. King's Shadow.

“Tell me of love, then.”

The answers came before they could bid them back. Father. Mother. Sister. Sibling. The laughter and games they had always watched, before Hornet and now Ghost sought them as a playmate. Beautiful music, overheard as they accompanied the Knights. Mother and Father, entranced with each other and dancing through empty halls. Herrah tickling her daughter as she shrieked and tried to get her mother back, then going to stand before Deepnest, proud and tall. Quirrel and Monomon sharing a new theory in terms it took them years to understand. Lurien painting quietly, gazing out at the city and whispering to his assistant as he translated the glow of the lanterns onto a canvas. The Devout and Weavers' adoration for Hornet, and her dedication to caring for her people. Shaking, uncertain stitches coming together to make the cloak they now wore.

They found their hand working, their thumb brushing Grimm's, knuckles clicking together. What did they love? Countless things.

Love...

Love felt far better than fear.

Far better than the crushing guilt.

Love felt like it belonged.

It was quiet, for a time, insofar as it was ever truly quiet in Deepnest. Void stopped dripping from the crack in their mask, but even then, Grimm excused himself to fetch a bandage of webbing, smoothing it over Hollow's mask with that incredibly warm touch. They could not help but lean into it, listening to his breathy laugh.

He did not sit beside them, not this time. Instead, he extended a hand, wearing that craggy grin that was becoming so familiar. “I find myself with some strength remaining. Would you care to dance again?”

They stood, taking his hand as they straightened up as tall as they could get. There was no music to accompany them this time, but they recalled the Troupe's unique beat, and the music they had heard.

Grimm settled into their embrace, one arm around their back, the other finding its place in Hollow's palm. His chest warmed theirs, insofar as Void could be warmed, smooth against rough. He hummed, something close to what they had heard among the Troupe. With all the webbing around, there was no echo at all, leaving only the closeness of them dancing together.

They led, as they had done before, stepping carefully and letting Grimm twirl and cut close and hook his leg around theirs. The two danced lazy circles through the room, their feet tapping against the wood. It was no circus tent, nor a palace ball; only the two of them, dancing in a world that hadn't quite managed to die.

Grimm closed his eyes and rested his head on their collar. His movement grew less flashy, but more settled in the rhythm they had set. But even that slowed, with time.

They squeezed his hand. Perhaps they ought to be returning to the others. He could rest. They wanted to check on their siblings.

“One more dance,” Grimm whispered, “One more dance before it's over.”

Of course they indulged him.


	40. Just Hold On And You'll Succeed

“Those have dried nicely. Look at them, do you not agree?” Grimm's hand ever so delicately touched the underside of Hornet's wings, moving them for better inspection. After all, she could hardly flicker them.

Ghost patted the center of Hornet's back, in the space between where her wing buds had erupted. Some form of agreement, she bet, though it was hard to tell what was going on behind her.

Though her wings were dry, Midwife had been horribly correct about her upcoming molt. She felt sluggish. Her shell was too tight, and whenever they took the towel off her – sometimes just to warm it, sometimes to give her a break – she struggled against the urge to pick at her joints and her back. Worst of all, she felt so _gooey._ She was stuck in what was soon to be her old shell, and her true self swum in a layer of slime. It had almost been a relief when her elbow began to leak, grayish fluid beading at the joint. It happened every time she molted, and when she'd noticed it her will gave way and she'd squeezed it to try and relieve the pressure. Midwife smacked her hand away, warning her, “Don't touch it.” By now, she was certain everyone in this room had taken their turn to do so at some point or another.

Cornifer, Iselda, and Quirrel huddled nearby, Midwife looming over them, all of them poring over a silk scroll transcript of Archive notes. The couple and Ghost had accompanied Quirrel to the Archives, under the hope that the Pale King had permitted Monomon to study him. Hornet had not been certain whether they would come up with anything at all, let alone anything useful. Considering her father, she found it just as, if not more likely that he had done the research well before Monomon existed, and kept that in the White Palace, where it would now be pointless. Yet against all odds they had found something that seemed approximately correct, and were busy translating from Monomon's shorthand.

Hollow was busy on a project. That morning, Midwife had brought down some fabric (proper fabric, not sheets) and designs the Weavers had made. They needed a change of clothes, according to her, and they did perk up when she laid the supplies before them and told them to pick a pattern.

And they had picked.

They deliberated the options, examining each one, sometimes picking the design up again to look at it again. When they pointed one out, more a dress than a cloak, designed for a beginner to understand shaping and drape, Midwife eagerly set to helping them cut the pieces and get started stitching. For now, she had them hemming the skirt.

Mato had declared he would go out hunting. He had listened intently while Hornet explained who still needed food provided, and Midwife had passed him a seal so he could prove he at least had the princess' approval before he went out visiting anyone.

Grimm secured the towel around her again and she sighed. She had been sitting there, physically and mentally unwilling to do anything but with the guilt that something needed to be done gnawing at her mind. 

“Are you bored?” Grimm asked, amused.

“Would you not be?” She was not sure she would say she was bored – though now that she thought of it, this whole process was not exactly stimulating – but the idea of confessing her guilt made the words feel heavy on her tongue.

He laughed. “You have seen me when my Troupe thinks to hold me down. Ah, but molts are simple. The old shell burns away in fire, in a blessedly fast and efficient process.”

She wanted to stab him, maybe a couple times with the way he had healed when they met and her blade found his shoulder. The others looked up briefly to consider Grimm, but all had been too polite – or intimidated, in some cases, maybe – to ask things like, “What exactly are you, Mister Grimm?” Because one's molts burning away in fire were certainly not normal, and really quite annoying to think about while she sat here, feeling disgusting.

She shifted, eyeing Midwife and the rest to ensure they were busy with their transcripts again. She moved her hand to her elbow, doing her best to make it look like a huffy crossing of arms and nothing else.

She pressed down, suppressing a face at the fluids seeping out.

Quick as a flash she shoved her hand out from under the towel and swiped a line of goo onto Grimm's thorax.

He shrieked, a sound that buried deep into one's carapace, into the flesh itself. Grimmchild, who had been napping in Hollow's lap, woke up to chitter and cry. Everyone, Midwife included, startled, staring at Grimm and Hornet.

As for Hornet herself, she couldn't help it. First a smile bloomed on her face, and then she giggled. And she couldn't stop. The giggle grew, until it became raucous laughter and she kicked her gooey, too-tight legs, bent over at her abdomen. Tears threatened to prick her eyes, doubly so when she saw the baffled, disgusted look on Grimm's face.

Her forehead met her knees, and she felt a pop and a rip down her back. Her laugh shuddered and hiccuped, but she could not stop it entirely, even as she tried to wiggle back, encourage the crack to grow.

“Such insolence, from a Higher Being to a god,” Grimm grumbled, though there was no force behind the words. He made another face when he looked down at the goo smeared on him, and backed up away from her. “Abhorrent, truly.”

Hornet rolled her shoulders, loosening up the towel so she could kick it off. It was still cold, the air cutting into her back as the break in her old carapace widened. She scratched at the back of her head, trying to find somewhere it caught and she could open up the carapace there, too.

Midwife, all of a sudden in her face, gently held her hands and cooed encouragements. Hornet let her head be, instead pulling back with Midwife to work against.

It was a strange feeling. What had been her body ceased to be so, instead becoming an obstacle for her to work against as she freed herself. Her back tore open and she fluttered her wings what little she could. She pulled her hands out of Midwife's grasp while leaving fingers and palms in place, the dark material gaining a cloudy translucency. Her legs slid out of place, eased along by the fluids that had been building up.

With an uncomfortable jolt, she ripped the back of her head, but also detached it from the old carapace of her neck entirely. She pulled at it, growling and hissing as she worked out of her old shell.

Finally, her new thorax pulled away from the old, and she wobbled to her feet, head down until she ripped the old carapace open and lifted it off like a helm. It was a little disgusting, but she lowered it before her and beheld it. Her horns had grown so long, it wouldn't be long until they were the same length as her mother's. Her old chelicerae drooped, no longer supported by anything.

She set the decapitated mask down on her old body's abdomen. She was so... so disproportionate. Perhaps not for a Weaver, but for a Devout, or a Beast, it almost looked silly. Looking down, shaking herself off, she noted her limbs were still long and gangly compared to her torso, and reaching up, it felt like her horns had only grown longer. She really did look most like Hollow, didn't she? They had been around her age, from what few images she saw of them back then, when they started to really settle into the proportions they now had. They were still gangly, though most couldn't overlook their sheer height to notice as such, and their usual long cloaks hid their form well.

She supposed she still had time to bulk up, like her mother. There was still a chance. Not a great one at all, though.

“Look at you! All fresh and new, my dear. How does it feel?” Midwife brushed her cheeks, and before Hornet could answer, prodded at her mouth and manipulated her chelicerae to check and ensure the birth defect she had grown out of years ago had not somehow returned.

“'Iwiiiihe!” Hornet complained, trying to free her mouthparts from her old caretaker's inspection. She sputtered and spat once she was finally let go of; she didn't need the taste of someone else's limbs in her mouth. “I'm fine!”

Ghost and Hollow approached, the others close on their heels. Grimmchild stared out from the crook of Hollow's arm, cackling when they caught sight of their father.

Ghost got closer, standing so close she thought they were going to reach out and touch her while her carapace was still soft. No, instead they just stared, eventually reaching up to pat their head and then wave it in the space between them. Oh. Gauging the new difference in their heights.

“A single molt doesn't make me grow much,” Hornet promised. It would add up, over time, and Ghost was already the smallest of the three siblings. (At least, they let this be so. That giant thing, the eight glowing white eyes... that was what made her sibling again.)

“Well,” Iselda said, her hands on her hips, “That answers some of our questions.”

“Some,” Quirrel agreed.

“But there's sure to be more interesting things in the data,” Cornifer said.

For a moment, Quirrel lit up. “Oh, most certainly!”

“I'm certain the part we were about to get to discussed the differences between bioluminescence and this kinglight.” Both Cornifer and Quirrel looked ready to burst at the idea of going back and poring through Monomon's notes.

As for Hornet, she was not sure what she could tell them about that in particular. Deepnest's mushrooms glowed. Her father glowed. His varied more; often, when she was nearby, he dimmed it. But she had learned to tell when something angered or otherwise upset him, or he had to be around people, and he grew bright and harsh. If it was much different from Deepnest's mushrooms in how it worked, that was a matter he had never shared. She had not inherited that from him, he had no reason to tell her a thing about it.

Iselda gave them a fond, if somewhat lost, smile as they chattered on about their theories. She had been listening intently, but from what Hornet noticed, wasn't saying much through the conversation.

The three of them returned to their transcriptions, Quirrel reading out what he could while Cornifer wrote, all three of them puzzling over uncertain terms.

Midwife picked up her molt, inspecting the carapace, the joints, passing the body further down her rows of legs to hold while she examined the molted mask. As much as Hornet wanted her to put it down and leave it alone, or at least not draw attention to it, her caretaker was at work and would not be dissuaded from such. “This was quite necessary, wasn't it? Look at the shape this is in, you somehow wore it out and built it up too much.”

“I have been busy, Midwife!” Hornet protested, reaching for her molt in desperation. It wasn't going to do anything, Midwife was more stubborn than she, particularly when she set her mind to something. Like being right. “I owe my debts-”

“Debts?” Midwife did put the shed carapace down, in favor of drawing so close Hornet could see the smallest details of her mask, and her eyes behind the carved sockets. “I don't know of a single debt to your name.”

How did Midwife not know? Did she act in ignorance? Hornet frowned, the action feeling strangely loose now. “My mother-”

“Your mother would be so proud of you, dear.” Midwife didn't touch her, not with her fresh carapace still drying. But her limbs ghosted upwards. Behind the two of them, the conversation slowed, and eyes either turned their way or averted in some semblance of privacy. Even Grimm shuffled, tucking his cloak tighter around himself.

“She'd never say you owe her a thing. She's the one who brought you into this world, after all.” Midwife found one of the blankets the Vessels had been sleeping on and took to folding it, keeping herself busy while she spoke. “I don't think she ever regretted any of it, though it broke her heart to know you'd lose each other. She called you a gift, when you were small. As for the rest of us in Deepnest, you're our princess. All we would ask is for you not to run yourself ragged like you have!”

“Midwife...” Hornet's eyes fell to the floor. Anger roiled in her stomach at the rebuke. Guilt ate at her edges, for having stopped her work, for not being there for her people, for not doing more for them, for being presumptuous with her mother. And fear, at being princess, but not yet queen.

“No excuses. Focus on drying off. We'll cook you up a nice, big meal, won't we, Hollow? Ghost? Goodness knows how the stomach tends to rumble after a molt.” Her orders given, Midwife turned sharply and wound her way out the door, gesturing for the Vessels to follow her. Ghost hopped up and ran for her, Hollow not far behind them. Had the two ever cooked anything before? Hopefully Midwife would be able to direct them into making something edible.

Once they were clear from the den, she muttered, “I'm going outside.”

There was not much outside to go to, on the balcony. But she stepped out anyways, shaking herself off as best she could. Funny, how she just felt a little odd at the moment. Molts always felt like they ought to be more physically eventful.

Which, this one had been. She paused, and, hesitant, reached back. The plating still ached, pulsing with pain when she touched it, and the simple act of reaching her arm like that compressed them in a way that made her wince. But still, one finger made contact, stroking the gossamer surface. It didn't feel all that much like the wings she was familiar with. Lillien, when she pupated into her winged stage, had excitedly let Hornet touch, once everything was dry of course. It had just been the two of them, hiding away in the corner of the barracks while everyone else was out, whispering about growing up. Lillien had raised her elytra and shown off the pretty wings underneath, so delicate. If only Hornet recalled better asking her how it felt to grow them. She'd been so preoccupied with how they felt, almost like silk, but... crunchier, in a way.

Her own didn't quite feel like that. Perhaps it was a strange way of her spider heritage asserting itself, but they felt more strongly of silk, or maybe like Grimm's wings. Yet again, she found herself wishing her parents were here. Either of them, though interrogating her father over the effects of his blood in her veins would be the more logical thing to do, instead of seeking out her mother and the comforting presence she'd provide.

In one of the world's cruel twists of fate, she heard the door open, and turned to see Grimm.

Her face must have fallen further than she thought, because he laughed at the expression she thought she'd stifled.

“Even saving your potential for flight is not enough to gain your trust? My, a hard sell you are, princess.” He stopped beside her, extending a wing to shield her, the warmth radiating off of it a welcome sensation to her weather-fresh carapace. The other stayed around him, providing a sort of half-cape. “You've an awful lot on your mind.”

“Hallownest needs to heal, I cannot neglect that.” She almost crossed her arms, hesitated, and dropped them again. Picking at her elbow and putting too much pressure on damp, new plating was two very different things.

Would it be all right to admit things to Grimm?

Was there anything he could do about it?

“Something is going on in the City of Tears. They've all lost the wherewithal to expand their facilities, even in manners that have immediate necessity.” Or near-immediate. Which reminded her, she needed to talk to Midwife about someone taking an apprenticeship. As far as she was aware, the centipede was the only remaining person of her profession in Hallownest, and anything involving medicine, Hornet did not want to have to rebuild their knowledge from scratch and anything Quirrel might be able to help translate from the Archives.

Grimm hummed, his eyes narrowing in thought. His wing drew back the slightest bit, an invitation to be sent away. “That... should not be at all related to the Ritual, I promise you.”

“I did not blame you.” Yes, the warm wing hovering just away from her was rather welcome, keeping her from feeling the cold too sharply. She could not find it in her to be sharp with him, and found herself at ease as the wing's warmth grew nearer.

“It is an issue worth considering. Perhaps you shall reach an answer soon.”

“I'll need to.” She stared out at the chasm she called her place of birth. The webbing and wood houses, lovingly constructed and still standing strong so long after the Weavers had left almost to the number, sat almost all unoccupied. The corpses had been cleaned off some time ago. So, so many dead children, in cloaks like the ones she had grown up wearing. Sometimes, she knew their names.

“What are you here for, Grimm?” Was there fear and death to be found here, for him and his child to feast upon? No doubt. Deepnest had been as ravaged as the rest, in the end. There used to be sensations, spiders' chatter, the feeling of magic being worked, the thrill of climbing from web to web, along with the place's background noise. Perhaps she had spent too long away from home, but the darkness bore down on her.

“Right here and now? Simply to visit. Everyone's concern over you and your siblings strengthens me, for what little it matters these days, but I cannot deny some of it is my own.” He smiled when she frowned, more to herself than at him. “Is that not what you would expect of a god? The Nightmare Heart itself may not be quite the same as I, but know that gods do care. Perhaps not always about things mortals or other Higher Beings would wish for them to care for, but they care and care deeply. Though, the Heart and I long ago agreed that I am the more personable edge of our continuum.”

He shrugged, his wing bobbing with the motion. “In addition, my child adores your siblings. You missed them zipping off to join them in the kitchen. Their happiness is mine. Knowing your father, he wasn't the same?”

“You're most observant,” she muttered. If nothing else, at least this molt meant the carapace that had last set foot in the White Palace was gone, even if it brought with it further, unavoidable evidence of her heritage. She used to be able to get away with being an odd spider. “The Pale King orchestrated what few friendships I found. He asked about them like he debriefed the Great Knights.”

He sought to see she grew up relatively normal, she figured. Or that she be vulnerable. That she bond with _someone,_ have something that mattered to her in the world beyond her needle. The Lady, Midwife, or Vespa were the ones she deferred to when troubles sprang up, though the White Lady tended to be vague, and Midwife brutal for Hallownest's residents (as she learned the hard way). Vespa had the best advice. The Pale King, whenever she mentioned an argument or feeling strange or inadequate against her peers, would hum and nod as if it were a footnote on one of his workshop documents. On rare occasions, he would bring up court cases, as if they had any connection to her failing friendships.

Deepnest adored her, for being princess, for being Herrah's daughter. Her peers did not understand her, or the way she made her silk when she figured that out. Hallownest found her a somewhat strange bug in terms of appearance, and an even stranger one in terms of mindset. How would they take her now?

“What's wrong?” he asked, his eyes cutting into her, as if he could peel off even more than her molt already had and get right to her heart and soul.

She let out a slow sigh, again fighting the urge to cross her arms. Instead she found herself sinking down, until her knees were at her chest. “Spiders don't have wings.”

He lowered himself alongside her, sitting with his legs dangling off the edge of the balcony. “Would you like another perspective?”

She glanced at him through the corners of her eyes. He did not sound like trouble, not at the moment, but she did not doubt his ability to cause it as need be. “Do I have an option?”

“You do not. Look.” He moved a little closer, gesturing to her limbs one at a time, counting them. “You've got two arms and two legs. Four in total.”

“I can do basic addition.” Did he think she had grown up in the woods, with nobody to attend to her? Which... she supposed Ghost had, essentially, unless something had kept them up before they returned to Hallownest.

“And now, two wings on each side. Four in total, yes?”

And four wings along with her four normal limbs... Hornet touched her hands to her face before she realized what she was doing and stopped. This was so ridiculous. All of it. When she was young, she'd wonder what happened to her other four limbs. Surely she had to have them at some point, right? She was a spider, after all. She asked her mother and Midwife about them, only to be told no, she had hatched with four, she'd not molted into more, so four it was. They loved her, whether or not she had eight limbs.

Now here she was, with those four more limbs she'd wanted. Of course this would be how it worked. Was it not a perfect summary of her life, her gaining a spider's full complement of limbs by way of the person who had separated her from her mother in the first place?

She could not help but laugh, confounded and delighted and bitter all at once. Look at her. A winged spider. Not one who could fly – yet, or ever, it did not matter much, she flew plenty with her needle alone – but one with wings.

A thump signaled Mato's return, the big bug straightening up from his landing on the balcony. Over his shoulder he'd slung multiple dirtcarvers, and some of the cutterbugs who squirmed all about in Deepnest's pits. Those, at least, were eternally plentiful, if rather tough. “Oh,” he said as he straightened up, “I didn't see you there, Hornet. Are you- did you molt?”

She nodded.

He beamed, the movement so bright he bounced a little. It was... not what she would expect from one with the title of Nailmaster, but she certainly saw what drew Ghost to him. Seeing him so happy began to tug her chelicerae into a smile, and Grimm looked rather proud, too, as if she were his daughter and not that of another god entirely. (Though they did have some resemblance, thinking of it. If she had not grown up knowing the reality of it, she would have believed Grimm being her father before the Pale King.)

(...She was pretty sure Grimm would not have been around Hallownest around that time. She certainly knew Herrah would not have become a Dreamer if she didn't need to.)

“Wonderful! What a feeling, isn't it, to be so fresh and new? I was about to bring these to the kitchen, do you want something to eat?” Mato saved an attempt to approach and pat Hornet on the back by stepping towards the den and gesturing towards the kills instead.

She nodded and stood. Her joints felt so smooth, now. Still wobbly, but she would get there. She would be confident on them again, just like every last time. Wings or no wings, she was Hornet.

“You should come up and see the Troupe again, when you can,” Grimm said, making his way to his feet. He had to pause for a moment, taking the time to look around the village, at all the houses both abandoned and occupied. “They quite liked your last visits, and it would be good to converse again.”

“Perhaps when Midwife clears me to leave the den.” Her siblings did love Grimm and Grimmchild, from what she had seen. She could always bring them to see the Troupe while she checked in with Cornifer and Iselda, or maybe she would see what Bretta was doing, make sure the girl hadn't run off without any sort of preparation. And when he wasn't putting on his strange performance for everyone else, she did not find him that bad to talk to. Maybe she ought to take advantage of him being the most personable of the gods she'd known, and try to learn from him what her father and stepmother neglected to say, and her family at the Hive and in Deepnest didn't know anything about.

But first, dinner.


	41. The Evening Is Slowing

“-To which I said, 'Of course, it would be so economical to share a room! But didn't you say this inn didn't have double-bed rooms available?'” Cornifer smiled, and pushed his glasses back up in place.

Uproarious laughter was not easy to get at this particular table, what with two of those present being mute and another rasping so very much. But Cornifer's tale of Iselda's attempts at flirting and his obliviousness did the trick. Even Hornet found herself laughing, a grin pulled wide across her new face. Ghost, to her right, pattered the table, and Hollow seemed to be working their hand.

Three staccato taps served as Ghost's request for more. Before they could do anything else to indicate what they wished for more of, Cornifer began another story and Mato hefted a platter of shredded dirtcarver meat, setting it down in front of them. As they stared, paralyzed by the variety of actions they could take, some of the sauce coating the meat dripped onto the table.

Hornet leaned over to wipe it up and use the serving fork to push the meat away from the edge, where it couldn't drip all over. The sauce was a simple mixture of whatever they could find around that looked like it might taste good together. They hadn't been the most successful, but it had been hard to mind a too-sweet edge or the staleness of the spices while the conversation flowed. It smelled nice enough, the savory and honeyed scent wafting through the room, a chorus joined by earthy vegetables and grain, and the jagged crispiness of some cutterbug Ghost had almost burnt, leaving it with an interesting crust.

“Thinking of, Quirrel, have you ever been to Snowyglen in your travels?” At Cornifer's question, most of the heads turned her old tutor's way.

Well, not Midwife's. Ghost had taken too long to decide what they wanted and she reached past to take the platter, whispering an, “Excuse me, I'd much like that.”

While she dished herself more food, her eyes glimmering, Quirrel scratched his chin. Much like Midwife, he'd had to remove his mask to eat. Or, part of it at least. He had set the part that covered his mouth down beside his plate, the small magic that held it in place accounting for the simple bug need for nourishment.

“I might have,” he said, mouthparts working as he considered the matter. How strange it was, still, to hear of kingdoms beyond Hallownest's purview. Hornet had known the Weavers originated from far beyond, though they had long settled in Deepnest. She knew people like Ze'mer had come from other places. However, none really spoke of it, save for allusions and distant history. Yet Hallownest's constant denial of lands beyond, save for the wastes... And here Quirrel was, native to Hallownest, having gone to those lands and come back. “It must have been some time ago. Was a Queen Riscoll in charge while you were there?”

“No.” Iselda drew the word out a little long, but the days in close quarters had forced everyone to at least somewhat adjust to each other's oddities. “She was long dead by the time we visited. Her great-granddaughter had the throne.”

“Ah. I see.” Quirrel blinked, and quietly turned to take a few bites of his meal. “Time has been... rather strange for me. Like it's been a rather long few years, maybe a decade at the most. Funny, that.”

Hornet nodded, and Midwife hummed in understanding. Hornet, seeing as she didn't have her mouth full at the moment, said, “Time has been impossible to judge under Hallownest's stasis. I could not tell you how long I have been patrolling this place, save for the successive generations of adventurers, looters, and uncautious sorts who come in through the well.”

Iselda elbowed Cornifer and muttered something to him, snickering. He said something about how yes, he had seen Hornet before, very briefly, and no she had not even said hello, he'd been a stranger.

“I've not thought much of it,” Mato admitted. “I've been focused on meditating, and improving my skills. Distantly, I think I knew something had to be off, but there were more important matters at hand. And, lo and behold! Ghost, Hornet, and Hollow here handled it!” He put his arm around the smaller Vessel, drawing them into a quick, one-armed hug that almost pulled them off the cushions Quirrel had stacked on their chair so they could reach the table. Hornet was certain he would do the same to her, if she wasn't still in the process of drying. Hollow was out of his reach, though they watched their sibling get a hug and Hornet reached up to pat their shoulder so they wouldn't feel left out.

“Really? I've been finding I can track how long it's been since I last got peckish enough to hunt one of the garpedes. Of course, it's been enough garpedes that I can't tell you when all this business started.” Midwife finished dishing herself food and tucked into what she'd taken, most of it disappearing in an instant.

Everyone else, meanwhile, stared at her. Everyone save Hornet. Ghost in particular managed a sort of exasperated look somewhere between being shocked and completely unfazed all at once.

“Those monsters?” Mato asked, more outwardly able to be dumbfounded than his student/adopted child. He waved frantically at the greatnail sitting against the wall, that well-loved and studied thing. “I couldn't even get a scratch on those things!”

“Oh, they can be difficult. At least they're not hard to catch, provided you're strong enough to drag them from where they tunnel.” Midwife picked a choice bit from her meal and popped it in her mouth, humming as she savored it.

“And what would-” Quirrel blinked, and took a breath, readjusting his bandanna before continuing. “What would you say the flavor's like?”

“Nice enough for me to come back for more.” Midwife's minor amusement – and Hornet's, though hers was more at watching everyone else – did not spread across the table. Everyone was still too busy being stunned at the concept of someone out there hunting and eating the garpedes. More than that, the someone in question was Midwife, who admittedly would not be the most comforting presence to a group of strangers, her full body outside her den and her mask slid away, but had still not hurt anyone.

Grimm opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it, and instead put a hand to his chin, eyes narrowing in deep thought. His child, what with their father distracted, edged away from their plate to sample off of Grimm's.

“Midwife, I've been thinking-” Hornet bowed her head, trying to collect herself to say the rest. It was a simple request, a reasonable one, but considering how Midwife worked, she didn't know how the request would be taken. “In the City-”

“I'm not going up there and you know it.” Midwife shook her head, snapping down on one last bite of dirtcarver.

“No? That's unfortunate, it's quite beautiful up there,” Cornifer said. He set to cutting through a thick slice of mushroom; while the glowing ones were inedible, there were others that grew deeper in the caverns that were common for Deepnest's residents to dry. However, even rehydrated, they could get chewy.

“It's lovely enough down here for my tastes. You Hallownest bugs like it too bright out, and you think everything needs to be wide open. Well, it doesn't. Like your palace, all I've heard of it sets my shell to itching.”

Ghost stared intently at the table, a weight on their shoulders. Upset they would never get to see the palace? It had been a beautiful place, the White Lady's love of foliage decorating the place in delicate silver leaves, complementing the Pale King's eye for structure. Though the thought of those ornate halls made Hornet's stomach clench.

“No,” she said, as much to change the topic as to complete her request, “I was thinking, at least a few of the bugs in the City of Tears are expecting. Last I saw them, none had laid yet, but they will, and I'd rather not have to bring everyone down into Deepnest.” Particularly not Hallownest citizens. It would already be hard enough to keep sovereignty of the two separate, unless Ghost or Hollow stepped up to rule. Which, technically, Ghost ought to.

She took a deep breath. “Would you mind taking an apprentice?”

Midwife paused for a moment, her head tilting to the side. She didn't put her mask back on, though, which Hornet took as a good sign. As often as it was in place when she delivered good news, it was always on when she delivered the bad.

After a moment, she said, “I suppose so. It's not like I'm going to be getting younger, am I? Find me someone and I'll let you know what I think of them. No guarantees I'm taking any random bug you find up there, they need to be of the right character. Someone who's happy to help others, to start. Trustworthy, and preferably experienced in childcare. Though I'll be lax on that one. Childcare, not trust. I'm not having an apprentice I can't turn my back to for a moment.”

With a sigh of relief, Hornet said, “Thank you, Midwife.”

“Oh of course. It'll need to be done. Until then, your Hallownest bugs can come down here if they're willing. I can't train someone in a day, and someone's bound to be laying eggs eventually. Say, Mato dear, have you a partner?”

Mato sputtered and gagged. He thumped his chest until he coughed, and had to catch his breath before he croaked, “No, I do not.”

“I can let the singles around here know, if you'd like. If spiders are to your tastes.” Midwife passed Iselda one of the dishes when she reached for them. She'd either decided she was full or that she'd wait to see what the other bugs left before cleaning out anything left, but she seemed all right for the time being.

“No- no thank you, madam.” Mato pointed at Iselda and Cornifer, with a notable desperation to his actions and voice. “Why don't you ask them? They're the couple.”

Grimm cackled, Grimmchild imitating him.

“Oh, actual couples get all nervous when I start talking. Suddenly they're questioning what's right for them, whether they're ready to have a family, all that. It's too real for them. Asking is a good way to shut them right up, though.” Midwife nodded sagely. She looked so serene, with her eyes closed and mouth about as closed as she could get it, drawn into a gently curved line, like a subtler version of her mask's expression.

And, as she had predicted, Cornifer and Iselda were both quiet and oddly stiff, a little more in a scared than formal manner. Iselda did try to smile when she noticed Hornet watching, while Cornifer gained a thoughtful frown.

“Of course, I am happy to work with you, considering all your help with the siblings,” Midwife said to them.

“Th-thank you, Midwife.” Cornifer couldn't even hold an attempt at a smile. Her trick had almost shattered the poor bugs.

Grimm looked around, maybe trying to find a way to get out of the conversation before he became Midwife's next target. Which, if he did change the topic, Hornet would be grateful.

But before he could string enough thoughts together to open his mouth and speak, Hollow dropped their fork, shifting their hand to the table. Watching Grimm, they tapped twice on the table. When all anyone did was stare at them, baffled, they pointed to Midwife.

“...You want to be my apprentice?” she hazarded. She worked her jaw, puzzling over them. They had gone and tried to communicate, and now everyone could only guess at what it was they meant.

They nodded. _Nodded._ Confirmed one of their own desires! Hornet could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Her sibling, quiet for so long, doing things for their own self. Unless some old order compelled them, but she couldn't think of a one that would do so.

“Oh, good, I was worried about the alternative. I'll be talking to you about that later, then. But for now, tea, anyone?”

The offer of a hot drink reset the frazzled bugs, and Hornet stood to help Midwife get everything set up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and there was only one bed!
> 
> _and there was only one bed!_


	42. Flashback VII: I Was In Heaven

_The Dreamers met regularly, updating each other on their preparations for their upcoming eternal comas, getting to know each other on the off chance they would be trapped together in the dream realm and not separate, and to prove to the royal family that everyone was still on board with the whole plan. Every time they met, each of them brought someone along, and always the same someone._

_The Dreamers' Companions, as Quirrel liked to call this gang of three, did have a strange sort of kids' table feel to it, if there could ever be a kids' table to a mystical pact intended to hold back the apocalypse. The small child who served as one third of the gang did not help in that matter._

_Today's meeting was more casual, more of a get-together than anything foreboding. There was tea, and snacks, and the White Lady herself was in attendance, chatting and generally serving as hostess. (And The Hollow Knight loomed in the background, standing guard.) If they were all together for something else, and they were not all who they were, Quirrel would have called it a pretty normal tea party. Just with better food than most. He had certainly eaten his fair share of the fresh vegetables available, crisp and sweet as they all were._

_He and Lurien's butler (he could never remember the fellow's name, it had to be something generic but by Wyrm and Root he had no clue what it was and it would be rude to ask now) were sitting together, watching the little girl on the floor between them draw. Lurien had found some charcoal pencils, a few wide, flat slates, and even a small canvas, and brought them to keep the girl entertained. After all, if she was entertained elsewhere, she wasn't entertained by gnawing on his ankle._

_Currently, she was occupied making some abstract piece involving many circles and a few slapdash lines. Every so often she stopped her work to eat; her mother had set a plate of snacks in front of her and they were slowly diminishing._

_“What are you drawing?” Quirrel asked her, trying to puzzle it out for himself. They almost looked like cocoons. Were there bugs who made cocoons in Deepnest? He thought it to be all spiders – or almost all spiders._

_“My house.” She pointed at one of the circles, notable only for being bigger than the others. “See? Here it is!”_

_“Ah. Very good.” He... honestly had no idea if that was accurate to Deepnest's houses, he had never been there. He had considered it, in his braver moments, but as fun as exploring sounded, he was a scholar, not an adventurer. Even if he'd been taking nailfighting lessons, at Monomon's behest. He'd shown an interest enough times she simply found a class and dropped the schedule on his desk. Every time he returned from it she eagerly asked how it went, and he had to admit it was nice to learn something entirely new._

_He reached for one of the slates. “May I show you my house?”_

_After a moment's thought, the child nodded._

_He took the slate and one of the pencils, and set to drawing. Art was something else he'd found interesting, but he had never really done much of it. He had more skill than a small child, but that was all he had going for him while he tried to draft the Archives' structure._

_Partway through, all too aware that Lurien's butler was the only one among them not drawing (save for the adults- no, the Dreamers, and the White Lady), Quirrel chortled, giving an awkward smile to the other bug. “My work here must be painfully amateurish for you, living with Lurien and all.”_

_“Oh, no. He's been painting for years and years. I know most other bugs don't. I've tried, sometimes, I know it's not as simple as he makes it look.”_

_Considering how rough the child's artwork was, Quirrel didn't feel bad with aiming for more of a quick impression. It got the general idea across, the big doors and all the windows, though some of the other details escaped him. He turned the slate towards the child, and when she looked he said, “Here it is! The Archives. Do you remember going there?”_

_She nodded, and took the slate from him to examine his work more closely. Without anything to say on it, she set it down and stood up, pencil still in hand. “I'm hungry,” she said by way of explanation._

_“But you've still got food on your plate.” He pointed at the food in question, the abandoned cured meats and savory pastries._

_“Mushrooms!” Before anyone could stop her – if anyone planned to stop her – she reached the low table and plucked one of the stuffed mushrooms from a platter. She shoved as much of it in her mouth as she could, glaring at Quirrel as if he was going to take it away. Like he would dare to reach in a spider's mouth and steal their lunch._

_He sighed as she wandered off. Thankfully, there wasn't much need for him to do much direct supervision; there were enough adults in the room that if she did something she was not supposed to, at least three people would be ready to respond, including her mother and stepmother. And then there was The Hollow Knight, standing off to the side. She was strangely fond of the bug-like being, he doubted she would stray far from them._

_He scooted closer to the Dreamers, to Monomon in particular, spooning himself a bit of some salad in a bright, tangy dressing. How funny – when he had been young, he had found the adult conversation boring, as the Gendered Child must feel now. But now, as an adult himself, it was nice to talk with them. Perhaps understanding the matters at hand helped. The child was bright, he knew that from the occasions he'd tutored her (Monomon asked to be her tutor when she was but a hatchling snuggled in her mother's arms, but the Teacher wasn't always available, and Quirrel was happy enough to take up the task) but understanding her lessons and understanding the ins and out of Hallownest's politics and social entanglements were two very different things._

_“Were you having fun?” Herrah asked. Even having been in her company for years, hearing her address him set Quirrel on edge. There was no hostility in her deep voice, grabbing as even that simple inquiry was. When he looked at her face, all he could imagine were spider eyes behind her mask, studying him like any predator watched their prey. What he had known of her before she began attending these meetings was a treaty with the Mantis Lords, a tram destroyed when they tried to build too deep into her territory, and her reputation for ruthlessly beating back any incursions anyone tried to make into Deepnest. She, a mortal, low-born among Deepnest's castes, made gods bow to her demands._

_Needless to say, it was a bit odd to see her acting like an everyday mother, checking in on her child's wellbeing. The child he had been drawing with, and tutored, the cute little girl with her colorful cloaks and round face and bright, curious eyes. That child, who liked to run around and draw and show off her weaving, was the child of Herrah the Beast._

_“Oh, great fun,” he said, trying not to show too much nervousness._

_That satisfied her, and she turned to Lurien. “You should bring slates more often,” she said, “It's certainly kept her busy.”_

_“That it has.” For all his quiet, nonthreatening demeanor, Lurien seemed absolutely unbothered by Deepnest's queen. Perhaps that was the sort of thing the Pale King had been looking for in the Dreamers. Certainly spared Quirrel from such a fate, though it hadn't spared Madam Monomon, who was still engrossed in a conversation about biodiversity in the Fungal Wastes with the White Lady. Nobody was going to be shaking that focus for a while._

_A bit of movement caught Quirrel's eye. With a sinking feeling, he realized The Hollow Knight had bent over, so far only the tips of their horns were visible. In addition, he did not see the child. What was she up to?_

_Slowly, so as not to startle anyone, he stood up and took one, two steps towards them-_

_The door opened, a bright glow sharpening the Palace's stark white interior. That got the others' attention, including the White Lady, who leaned over her seat to give her husband a kiss._

_Quirrel couldn't see if he'd reciprocated, but as the White Lady sat up, he heard a hissing sigh._

_“Child,” came a voice that shook Quirrel to his core, like a whisper or sharp breath that cut into him and buried its meaning deep within him, in his heart and mind and soul, “What are you doing?”_

_“Coloring them in!”_

_Now everyone had to look, people turning to look over the backs of the couches, or like him, peering out from the side._

_Shielding his eyes from the Pale King's brilliant light, Quirrel saw exactly what he referred to. The Hollow Knight had crouched down, and the Gendered Child stood there before them, charcoal pencil in hand. Upon the Vessel's mask were scribbled dark patches._

_As if to demonstrate what she meant, the child turned right back to the Vessel and continued scribbling all over them._

_Herrah laughed first, Monomon and the White Lady following suit. Lurien held his face in his hands; he had given the child the pencils, after all, he was in part to blame for the artistic expression going on. His butler smiled, hiding the expression behind a hand, and finally Quirrel had to laugh a bit, too._

_“How wonderful! Look, Pale King. Our baby is such an artist.” Herrah had to move her mask up to allow for how widely she grinned, her pedipalps spread out. She looked right at the king, entirely unbothered by his glow. Or, if she was, she didn't show it._

_If it was strange to think of Herrah as a mother, it was extremely weird to think of the Pale King as a father. Here was a being people worshiped, carving intricate idols, decorating tapestries, composing poems in his name. He and the White Lady created this entire kingdom, and he in particular personally designed so much of it, his style permeating the architecture, the stagways, the very structure of Hallownest. He did not walk towards his child so much as glided, like fog shaped into something like a bug but not and also more, the only thing betraying the presence of limbs being the quiet clicking of footsteps on the cold stone floor. His daughter shared his eyes, a promise that her curiosity would deepen into his piercing gaze._

_For now, though, she shrieked as he took the pencil from her hand. Two more hands emerged from his robe to hold her back as he held out the pencil for someone, anyone (save for the child) to dare and take._

_The thought of approaching him froze Quirrel in his tracks. Here was a social invitation. He could, conceivably, brush hands with the person most bugs would never see in their lifetimes._

_Monomon acted before he could, one tendril wrapping around the pencil and taking it. From there, she passed it off to Lurien, who quietly stowed it in his robes._

_“Dada-”_

_“No.” He may well have been proclaiming the most important news Hallownest would ever hear, not reprimanding a child. “Go sit with your mother.”_

_“Dada!” the girl protested, fists clenching. However, when her father let her go, she stormed over to the couch and climbed onto it, flopping into Herrah's arms with a huff. She cuddled closer, though, and her posture eased when Herrah and the White Lady rubbed her back._

_“Wonderful work, Wyrm. You spoke to her! Now she's mad at you.” Though there was a bite to be found, Herrah sounded blessedly more amused by the whole affair still._

_“Coloring on- on the Vessel is not proper behavior. That's not going to come off so easily. Go to the washroom, clean that off.” The Pale King stepped back._

_The Hollow Knight stood, lumbering out the door._

_“Come now,” Herrah said, “It's a little self-expression. She wasn't hurting them. They let her do it, even.”_

_“They do not 'let.' They follow orders. She must have asked them to kneel for her.” The Pale King made to follow the Vessel out the door, but he paused, fingers curling around the doorway. “I cannot risk the Pure Vessel.”_

_He left. Slowly, the conversation began again, a muttering to confirm everyone did, indeed, understand The Hollow Knight's importance. Monomon offered the Gendered Child another mushroom, which she also tried to stuff wholesale in her mouth._

_“That was a little rude there at the end, wasn't it?” Herrah picked up a napkin to wipe her child's mouth clean. “We're risking so much, ourselves.”_

_“He is of an overall serious demeanor. Often, he finds it difficult to be around others, and the infection's stress has been deleterious,” the White Lady said._

_“I know, but still- Hm? Where are you going?”_

_Quirrel watched as the child hopped off the couch. Determined, she strode for the door and tugged on it, heaving and grunting until she got it open. Once she did, she stuck her head out and shouted down the hall at her retreating father, “Rude!”_


	43. Once Atrocity Is Hoarse

They only traveled again once Hornet's carapace had dried, and everyone went home. They only traveled as a group, that was. Ghost had duties around Hallownest. Hunting for the people in the City of Tears was only one.

The night after Grimm returned to the Troupe, Ghost left, too. They came back the next morning, Grimmchild, newly molted just like Hornet, circling above them. Their friend's eyes glowed, now, and they were not sure they recognized the presence behind them. Not all of it, anyways.

Hornet's face had fallen when she saw Grimmchild. Hollow had retreated to spend the day with Midwife.

Today, though, they traveled together, and they had just reached their destination.

“Oh! Hello again!” Sheo waved at them as they entered. His eyes lingered on the nail on their back; they'd been sure to clean it, in case he did not like seeing it dirtied. His partner certainly didn't. “Have you something new to show-”

_Whumpf!_

Startled, Sheo gripped his brush like a nail and ran for the door. The Nailsmith poked his head out from behind a curtain.

Ghost followed Sheo out the door, to where Hornet was trying to help pull Hollow up onto the ledge and out of the thorn pit.

They could have easily placed Hollow on the ledge. How simple it would be, to break their shell, to swarm free of it, grow so large the thorns were a pittance against them.

But how easy it would be, too, to keep growing, to become the ocean they were born from. To flood Greenpath, to flood Hallownest, to consume and consume until the entire world was painted Void-black. Flashes of nightmare red, of bright eyes wide in surprise, shied them away from doing so.

Sheo knelt, wrapping his arms around Hollow's thorax. With a grunt he hauled them up, stumbling back until they got their feet under them and were able to straighten up, using him as support.

Much like his brother had, Sheo looked between Hollow and the door and sighed. “Well, you might have to duck. Or crouch.”

They did get in, after a fashion. They couldn't quite stand to full height, their horns brushed the ceiling well before that, so they stayed hunched over. Seeing them like that put Ghost right back at the Black Egg Temple, seeing their sibling bubbling with infection and barely strong enough to stand on their own, forced to fight by the will of an angry god.

“Oh my,” the Nailsmith breathed. He emerged from the curtains, moving things out of the way to clear a spot for Hollow to sit. Once he was done he gestured for them to sit down, and they did, watching as he ducked back behind the curtain.

“We have a couple guests, Lias!” Sheo called, an amused (and surprised) lilt to his voice. “And our usual visitor as well.”

He nodded to Hollow as he settled in front of his painting again, easing his grip on his brush. He smiled, though it didn't come as easily as Mato's. This was a polite thing, even if Ghost thought he would come to quite like their siblings once he got to know them. Maybe he would smile with such easiness then. “I almost forget myself. My name is Sheo. Lias here is my partner. Ah... wasn't there another one...?”

He looked around, as did Ghost. They saw Hornet before he did, watching from the doorway, her arms crossed. She didn't meet the Nailmaster's eyes, studying the arts and crafts around the hut. So different, from Mato's place. Or Oro's, but they didn't think she knew Oro.

“Hello! Come in. Don't be shy. Your...”

“They're my siblings,” Hornet said. She stepped inside, eyeing the art supplies like they would jump out and attack her. But at the same time, as she studied the various tools, her head raised a little, and Ghost saw a sparkle in her eye.

“Oh! Oh, yes, I see the resemblance. What's your name, then?”

“Hornet. The tall one is Hollow, and the short one is Ghost.” She nodded at her siblings in turn. There was a comfort to how she said their names; it was more than their father or mother had ever given them, a name. They liked Ghost. Ghost was fitting. It was small, like they liked to be, not like Hollow which you could stretch out until it was as long and dirge-serious as they were. (Until they were not. Ghost wanted to bring Hollow back to the spring sometime, so they could splash more. It was so hard to get Hollow to play, but they were getting better about it. Which was why Ghost brought them to Mato, and to Sheo.)

“Hornet. Well, it is good to meet you. Lias and I were working on some painting, if you three would like to join us while the brushes and paints are wet? I've got plenty of supplies to share. I have never been able to convince Ghost there to join in, but they watch sometimes.” He trotted over to a stack of sheets of rock, silk, and beaten plant matter. He picked through them, shifting them aside just enough to show the variety. “I have plenty of potential media.”

Ghost could not help but join him. They had to pull up, trying to hold their weight up with their arms to get a better look. The sheets of rock were so dark, flat on both sides, and it looked like Sheo could break it with his bare hands! Would it be able to stand being painted on? Then there were the silk and plant sheets. The silk ones felt like fabric, something they would have wrapped up in, or maybe that Hornet would have used as a blanket when she was small. The plant ones were rough like the rock, with ragged edges. Ghost could trace the pulp, and sometimes there were small bits of plants, or seeds, or flowers embedded in it.

Sheo chuckled, pulling one of the plant sheets free and holding it out to them. “Do you like it? I learned how to make it some time ago, from the Mosskin. They make art with it and set it in that lake up above, for their goddess. I've done it myself, to thank her for letting me stay. You should try it, too, if you're using that.”

Part of them felt wary of interacting with another god. But... they had seen Unn. She had been peaceful enough. Certainly she started the least trouble of all the other gods they had met. Yes, it would be nice to give her something. They could maybe establish a good relationship.

“Hornet, Hollow, what would you two like? Come over, take a look if you want.” Sheo waved them over as he passed Ghost the sheet of paper.

Both of them ended up with spider silk sheets. Hornet in particular kept examining hers, picking at the threads, mumbling to herself. Hollow watched over her shoulder, lowering their head until Hornet absentmindedly reached up to scratch their horn and they froze, staring into the distance.

Well, if their sibling was getting attention, why would they have to miss out? Ghost bounded closer, stretching as high as they could while Hornet stared back at them. Slowly, she rolled up the sheet and tucked it under her arm, resting her free hand on their head and patting them. Good. Maybe she would get the hang of this whole sibling interaction thing. Maybe she would even realize that sleep piles were good, not something to be avoided. Also, wasn't it just so wonderful to be touched kindly? So many things liked to bite and stomp and hurt. Including Hornet. Yet things could not hurt, too. Things had become a lot kinder with the infection gone, in their opinion, and it was much better this way.

“Hah, I know how that is,” Sheo said, smiling wistfully. Lias had emerged from behind the curtain, carrying an armful of small clay sculptures, and now Sheo was trying to help ease the load and get them set up. “My brother, Mato, he used to follow me around everywhere.”

“I myself was more like the knight there. I was the one kept from my clutch, and all my brothers were older. I always had to chase after them to get involved in anything they were doing.” Lias set the statuettes down and began picking through them. A knight here, a – was that a kingsmould? A kingsmould there. A duranda with oft-repaired, spindly limbs off to the side. “Sheo, could you move that for me? Thank you.”

Sheo swiveled a statuette of Ogrim to face more towards a mini-Dryya. He surveyed the other statuettes for a couple beats, humming to himself. “I think this composition will come out splendid. I can't wait to see.”

“You flatterer,” Lias said, all full of warmth.

Sheo stood up sharply, spinning to face the siblings. For a moment, Ghost would have liked to smile as he hurried for them, plucking a few brushes from a jar and passing them out. He pushed some of the paints toward them, along with a cup of murky, brownish water. “My apologies, I got distracted. Here. Paint whatever you want. We can share when we're all done.”

...Whatever they wanted?

Ghost pulled out their map, pondering it. They did draw much of the map, whatever Cornifer had not already have. They could draw that. They even had their small renditions of buildings and other interesting features they had found around Hallownest. What else was there to draw?

They went searching. Hornet and Hollow? Hornet kept moving. She had already decided on something, and busily smeared off-white paint onto her sheet in broad circles. Hollow sat there, staring at their sheet, holding their brush so still Ghost could have simply plucked it from their hand. Would they paint? Ghost wanted to see what they painted. What did they hide in that mind?

Maybe the figures Lias was using for a still life. It tempted them. But maybe painting the same thing as him would take all his inspiration. That would not be proper. They ought to leave it to him. They wanted him to paint something nice.

The view out the door... maybe. That would be like painting a map, right? A very detailed map, looking in a specific direction. Yes. That would do. They sat beside Sheo – he had a better angle on all this – and dipped their brush in brown paint, using it to form the doorway's arc.

What did Sheo mean when he told them wielding a nail and a brush were like the same thing? They did not know. Maybe they had to paint more. Art seemed to them to be a way to record the world, in some way. A nail cut into it, yes. Nails did many things. Nails did not draw them maps. Brushes did not kill attackers. How did both cut into the world? Did making the world again change it somehow? Did it give Sheo insights beyond where he had been before?

They pondered this as they swiped thorns and flooring and walls. As they added ragged, dark lines to approximate the hut's structure, they wondered what about painting drew Sheo to it. It was fun enough, very different from what they usually did, except for filling in maps. There were many arts. They had seen some of his other arts. Why did he pick those ones?

They asked these things all the while they painted. It was not easy, they found, to paint all these little details. They knew how to be precise, from adding to maps, but there were so many details. Surely they didn't have to paint every thorn? How would they do this? It was tiring. They squiggled on a few lighter lines, all in clumps. There. It kind of looked like thorns.

Something different. They needed to look at something else for a moment. They left their sheet, carrying their brush as if it were their nail. After all, did they not need both?

Rounding over to their siblings, Ghost peered between them. Hornet worked diligently, thin strands of silk glowing between her fingers and on the painting as she laid it out in careful, deliberate patterns. Of course it all looked like spiderwebs, covering the orb-shaped houses of Deepnest she had rendered. Some of the Weavers she had painted trailed it, too, though their strands of silk were less purposefully clumped in the paint. Overall, yes, that reminded them of Deepnest, and the Distant Village in particular. Considering how Midwife had complained about her never staying, and them having only seen her in her home once before the Radiance fell, it must have been nice to paint her home. It would be exceedingly difficult to paint their home, but Hornet's was a nice substitute.

“Ghost,” Sheo grumbled as he approached, “You need to move your things somewhere safe if you're stopping.” Indeed, green paint smeared on his leg, and their artwork looked a little... stepped on.

He shook his head and got to watching over their siblings' shoulders. “Very nice work, Hornet. Deepnest? And is that silk?”

She nodded. “It's where I grew up.”

“That makes sense. A nice use of the various media, too. The strings in particular.” Not that strings were, as far as Ghost knew, a normal part of painting things. But they were shiny, and glowed faintly, plus Hornet seemed pleased. It did make it look more like Deepnest, with all its spiderwebs, some invisible in the dark, others so thick they were impossible to avoid.

“The silk makes for interesting highlights, but if you added a little more light to the houses, maybe around here, opposite the shadow, it would make it pop some more.” Sheo pointed at various parts of the painting. “Even if it's something subtle, it's quite a difference.”

She nodded, gazing down at the painting again, her face drawn in contemplation. Ghost would have to keep that in mind, too. They had mostly just gotten down the basic shapes; there were too many thorns for them to get to the point Hornet was at. But it also was not exactly what they had seen of the Distant Village. They understood. It was not as easy, when a place was not right there.

Ghost and Sheo stepped over to Hollow. Only this close did Ghost realize Hollow was moving. They stared down at their sheet in a way Ghost had first found blank but now seemed to be born of concentration; under their cloak, their arm moved in short, rapid strokes.

They circled around, sneaking in under their cloak to sit on their leg, while Sheo had to look from the side; Hollow's horns meant he could not observe while standing directly behind them.

There were so many colors.

Had Hollow spared any of the ones they had been given? It was as if it was all splashed on and smeared around, mixing into murkiness where the colors bordered each other, the paint itself thick enough it formed lumps. It exploded out from a swirling black center, the brushstrokes still visible, like tracks showing how Hollow spun and twisted the brush. And at the edges they seemed to be covering it up, picking up more black and drawing it outwards in short flicks.

They did not stop for Sheo, nor for Ghost. They did not look, only focused on the painting. On those short strokes. On something, _something_ they had to get out.

Years' worth of something, wasn't it? Ever since they had walked out of the Abyss. Ghost slid back, until they rested against Hollow's torso. Just so they knew someone was there. Ghost didn't imagine there were many people to touch them, kindly or otherwise, in the Black Egg Temple. Certainly not siblings.

“I- hm. That is certainly something,” Sheo mumbled to himself, watching as Hollow painted. He could not seem to find the words for it. They had their process, they had something, but it was not a tapestry or a painting of a thing. It was paint on a canvas. It meant something. It meant something that could not be seen or touched or heard. Ghost knew. Did Sheo know? Did he have to know Hollow like their siblings did?

Personally, Ghost liked it much more than ghastly pale things.

Hornet sat beside them, Hollow's cloak separating her and Ghost. Quietly, the three watched as Hollow told their story.


	44. This Exercise Of Trust

Ghost, for whatever reason, insisted on rolling up in a blanket and blocking a hallway one evening. Well, they would have blocked the doorway if it was not so easy to simply climb around them, but the intent was clear.

Hornet sighed, frowning at them as they stared up at her. The two of them had gone to check in on the City denizens, and returned to Deepnest late in the evening, after Hollow had gone to sleep after a long day training under Midwife. She was tired, she hoped Ghost was tired, and here they were, standing in the hallway.

“You've battled gods and won,” she grumbled as she picked her sibling up. They did not care for the admonishment, resting their head on her shoulder. It still ached a little, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. Sometimes she found herself petting her winglets, or feeling anxiety gnawing at her gut as she wondered if they really would be that big forever. If she would molt any more at all.

Ghost wrapped their arms around her neck, snuggling. She sighed; they had spent most of the day out hunting to help provide for the City denizens, they had taken down the infection, they were, under their mask, some monster of a god on their own. Yet here they were, playing games like they were a small child and looking for her to tuck them in or some nonsense like that. What were they getting at?

She crept into their and Hollow's room – Herrah's room. All three of theirs, she guessed. It was beginning to feel strange to think of this place without her sibling curled up with their back to the empty plinth. A fitting way to honor her mother, she hoped. Using it to care for her family, and to give space to pass down Deepnest's teachings. She would create a proper shrine later. Maybe once Hollow and Ghost had somewhere to stay, and she could convert this room one final time. Maybe she would build a shrine next to the old sire's. Though that felt strange, considering she had never met him, and while Herrah loved him from the stories Midwife told he had not been the queen's only love, nor first, nor even the last one.

Hollow barely stirred as she set Ghost against their thorax, one leg twitching in their sleep. What did Vessels dream about? Did Hollow find more comfort in normal dreams, or in nightmares? ...What would their nightmares be like, considering their relation to the dream realm?

They seemed to be at ease, at least. She yawned, rubbing her eye, and turned back towards the hall. She should ask Midwife how training was going. It still seemed odd to her, that her sibling, born to royalty and raised a knight, would apprentice under her caretaker. It was so different from what they had done all their life. But maybe that's what they needed, wasn't it? Being born of two gods, and considering Ghost had survived as long as she and Hollow had been alive without the benefit of Hallownest's stasis to halt their aging, Hollow had lifetimes to try new things, anyways.

She reached her room, stripped out of her hunting cloak, and donned a simple shift. She knew she was odd for preferring wearing things while she slept, but between Deepnest's love of showing off fiber arts at every opportunity and so long sleeping in her hunting cloak to have her tools at the ready in case she was ambushed, it felt comforting, even if her needle was stowed and her tools still in her hunting cloak. The shift in itself had a bit of a story to it, too, even though it was made outside Deepnest. Someone had invented some fantastical machine to speed up sewing, and the Palace tailors managed to acquire one. They'd excitedly used her as a test subject, being of simpler build than her father and needing less fabric than her stepmother. The end result was the shift.

Nowadays, she didn't think either the tailors nor any of the machines had survived. She'd not seen anyone from the staff since the Palace disappeared, not that she would miss most of them. (The tailors, at least, she had something to talk with them about.) Maybe, if she was lucky, Lemm had the machine's blueprints, though. If they could find or make the parts, that would make life easier.

She shook her head, crawling into her bed and curling up. Spinning off thoughts like that just made sleep harder.

The world tilted and spun for a moment, and then she was asleep.

Something chased her. It grabbed her, tendrils wrapping around her. It burned, it burned, and she wanted to scream but she couldn't. Something lit behind her. Her wings. They were burning away. And she was choking, that thing strangled her, it was going to take her apart. It already had Hollow. It already had Ghost. Already- Already-

It pulled a mandible off. Another. Ripped her fangs from her mouth. The absent spaces leaked venom, spilled it down her throat. It burned, too, and she could feel her insides turning to liquid, sloshing around in her carapace. But her heart kept pounding, even as it melted away.

She couldn't get away. She fought. It held her, until her limbs were heavy and she couldn't move.

It drug her down. Cold. So cold. Yet she burned-

Everything was dark. Her bed pressed against her back. A hand grasped her chest, closed around it, shaking her. She squirmed, and the hand released, moving to stroke her horns instead. She panted, her heart raced, she heard her blood pumping. But there was no venom, and brief probing found her chelicerae and fangs in place.

Slowly, her heart felt less like it would jump out her throat, and she breathed at a more proper pace. She still clutched the blanket she'd almost kicked off in the night, holding it close to her stomach.

“Hollow,” she rasped, when she felt maybe like she could talk again.

They did not stop stroking her head, trying to soothe her, until she turned to them. Their mask loomed, stark and pale. How did they know to wake her? Did she cry? Did they hear her flailing? And all the way from the other room, too?

They took her hand, holding it between their finger and thumb, and tugged.

“No, I'll be fine.” She freed her hand, tucking it under herself. She was not so young that she needed to stay with someone to get over a nightmare. Honestly, she didn't know why Ghost and Hollow huddled together at night, unless they wanted someone else there in case something happened.

It took a moment. They hesitated, and she swore they sighed before they pulled their hand away and stood. Despite their size, they exited as quiet as a whisper, leaving her alone. Only the darkness and distant noise to accompany her.

She tried not to think of it. She tried to focus on her wardrobe, or an old weaving project sitting undone, or her needle. She had her needle here. She would be fine. For goodness knew how long, it had been just her and her needle. Nobody else ever stayed, she would not bother trying to take comfort there.

But it had been... nice, if overwhelming. Having everyone at the den. Someone was always available to do something, not just her. It had been like... it felt right. Like how home had been. Before she lost her mother. Before Hallownest fell.

And now it was quiet. There were no people sounds. Maybe there were no people. Maybe she was the only one left, and everything would stretch on, this eternal night again, with nobody but herself. Not even the possibility of going to Midwife, or visiting one of those people Ghost had befriended.

Oh. She'd sat up. Now she was walking out the door, hugging herself. The den's webbing absorbed her footsteps. In the White Palace, they echoed. In the Hive, they tapped. Here, there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

She climbed up the short rise to her siblings' room. The plinth rose, ominous enough without the candles around it lit. Hollow, as usual, had their back to it, their shape jagged and lumpy in contrast to the flat surface.

They jerked when she approached, waking from whatever doze they had fallen into. Their chin lifted, watching her without them rising up and disturbing Ghost, who had cuddled back into their thorax as if they had never gotten up to check on her.

...What did she say? Shame prickled; she had pushed them away, and now she had to admit defeat, and-

“Can I stay here, actually?” she whispered. Her fingers dug into her elbow.

Hollow propped the sheets up, creating a sort of tent with their arm as the pole. Hornet crawled in, patting around in search of Ghost. Her hand landed on them and they stirred, turning over, arms open wide. She laid on her side, and pulled them close, feeling them latch their legs around her and rest their head, heavy with sleep, on her collar.

In turn, Hollow brought her closer to them, nudging the top of her head with the tip of their mask. They inhaled deeply, sighing in relaxation. Their legs drew upwards, until Hornet was tucked between their knees and thorax. Though a little bit of her itched at the idea of being wedged somewhere... it was her sibling. They were safe. They wouldn't let someone get to her, and if anyone tried to get to them she would finish the fight before she could even get her needle.

She squirmed, getting comfortable, and Hollow dropped the sheets, hiding her and Ghost away. They nuzzled her again, and stayed that way, curled around her.

She had missed this.

Knowing someone was there. The feeling of security. Not having to worry about something coming across you in the middle of the night, and being unable to fight, or never waking up at all, and nobody ever finding your body. Or even just waking up and feeling like there would never be anyone to talk to, going around in isolation, even when you saw other people.

She could feel Ghost wiggling in their sleep, and Hollow breathing. (She heard a slight, almost inaudible wheeze. How had she not noticed that before?) There was the weight of her siblings around her, embracing her. The silk sheets wrapped around them, reminding her she was _home._ The cool air settled in around her, urging her to drowsiness.

She patted Hollow's thorax. “You'll make a good...” What was the word again? Something like... “Parent?”

No.

Right.

“Caretaker. Yes. You'll do great.” She nodded to herself, barely able to feel the motion. She felt the dark closing in, swarming at the edges of her vision. She could not accept it just yet, she had something to say, but soon. Soon she could permit it. “You're very... you're very full of good things.” She patted them again, letting her hand come to a rest against the cold crags of their carapace. “I know it's all in here. You cannot dissuade me.”

An over-large finger poked the tip of her face. She wiggled her chelicerae at it.

“What?”

The finger pet her head. Like she had pet that one mosscreep. It had been a very nice mosscreep.

“I'm not full of- of-”

She could not think past the more insistent brushing, clearing all the thoughts out of her head. But she had to say something.

“I bite people,” she mumbled. “I'm very- I'm very-”

She was not awake long enough to say _cruel._ Instead, she fell asleep, snuggled with her siblings and dreaming of a hot spring where the three were splashing around and swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Things have been getting a lot more on the fluff side recently, I'm having a good time :D
> 
> I also loved y'all's joy over Hollow last update, and the stories about coloring (and glittering) things that should not have been. It was really fun! Thank you!


	45. Need You At Home

It had been an endlessly cute – outright adorable, even – surprise to find Hornet piled with her siblings when Midwife went to visit. She had called for Hollow, and found them with their head barely raised. When she started to ask them to come with her, they lifted up the smallest bit of the sheets covering them, revealing Hornet fast asleep, Ghost in her arms. Midwife managed to resist the urge to coo too loudly, instead offering to get breakfast going. For everyone, of course.

Hollow didn't join her in the kitchen, not with their sister sleeping all snug with them. However, after a time, as the smell of cooking food wafted all rich and meaty through the den, Ghost entered, still rubbing their face. They hopped up to sit on the countertop, kicking the drawers underneath. No sign of their mind-invading device, at least. Next time she saw it, she swore she was going to eat it, and what luck would they have trying to read her mind then?

“Could you stir that for me?” she asked, gesturing towards a pan.

Nodding, they picked up the spoon beside it and gave the contents a stir. Their face lingered; maybe they did have some sense of smell, then, or enjoyed the sensation of steam on their face. Slowly, pulling their arm back in short bursts before extending it again, they reached out...

“No, dear, that's hot. It'll burn.” She reached out to push their hand back. Tiny fingers curled around her limb, and she couldn't help but smile behind her mask, bobbing their hand up and down. How funny, to think they were the same age as The Hollow Knight. The two acted so differently. Maybe they would come to balance each other out, in time.

When would the next clutch of hatchlings come about? Her den had been so empty. She used to be surrounded by Deepnest's young. Presences like Ghost were just as familiar as adult company. Besides, she ought to give Hollow a chance at seeing her work. For now, she planned to invite those in the City who were willing to stay with her until they'd laid and then adjusted to their hatchlings. If they weren't willing, she'd insist, or rather have Hornet insist in her place. She'd not leave them to a brand new apprentice who spent much of their time here, anyways. They would have to put up with Deepnest for a time, and she would have to get to understand Hallownest bugs, but the ones Ghost and Hornet had brought back had been good people. Well, that Grimm figure was a little odd, and certainly a Higher Being, but he'd done his part.

“Perhaps...” she started, trailing off as she considered. There was plenty to do. Would Hornet need Ghost today? They had been gone for so long yesterday. Ghost stirred the pan again, and the thoughts she needed clicked into place. “Perhaps we'll work on writing, today. I've never seen you nor your sibling write.”

They looked up at her, and set the spoon down, reaching into her cloak. She was not sure where they pulled their map from, their cloak looked no different for having it removed, but they spread it out and pointed to the lines, the small drawings indicating various places.

“That's not writing, dear.”

They gave her a- it was a pout, of some sort. They did a good job, pouting with a face that didn't move. She didn't even see chelicerae, and she knew Hollow had some, and that Ghost could eat. They had to have something, right? Perhaps it just blended with the rest well enough that she couldn't see. Or they were afflicted with the same issue Hornet had when she was young. She ought to give them a closer exam at some point, then, and if that was the case, she could offer to trim the shell to shape.

“It is communication, yes, but...” She sighed, and cursed. She was going to say it wasn't script, but they would know Hallownest's script, wouldn't they? Not Deepnest's. Deepnest's script was more a series of knots and other woven patterns, though there was an ink-and-pen version that just didn't get the nuance of the woven version. Hallownest had only what they carved on rocks and wrote on the silk they began trading for, late in the kingdoms' lives. Maybe, if she was lucky, both of the Vessels knew how to read the script already, and she just had to prod them into writing it. She knew shaky writing and the like when she saw it.

Oh, she would ask Hornet to read and check her siblings' spelling and grammar when she got the chance. That would be quick, she hoped. That way, she had something to prompt them with, too. Write to your sister.

Perfect.

The rest of the kitchen work was filled with the sound of cooking food and her humming. She knew Ghost wouldn't recognize the songs she knew, but they would learn if she sang them enough, she supposed. All her life she'd been told she had a lovely singing voice, and she had trained her speaking voice into a soft croon over years of combating anxieties and emergencies and the like. She quite liked to use it.

“Mmh?”

And there was Hornet, showing up right in time for breakfast, just as bleary-eyed as her sibling when they had walked in. Hollow, lurking behind her, looked far more awake. At least, they weren't scrubbing their eyes and huddling inwards.

It disoriented the poor girl, having a plate loaded up and put in her hands, then shooed to a table while her siblings and caretaker got their meals and joined her. This early in the morning (it wasn't early, but Midwife wasn't about to tell her she slept in, so it could be early in her morning), she didn't remember how to be part of a family all the way. Good thing she had people around to remind her, then.

The smell of food invigorated her, at least. Her gaze cleared while she dug into her meal, chelicerae and fangs busily tearing into fried meats dripping their own fats, crisp roots, and golden-crusted mushrooms. Hollow worked at the food, too; maybe the tall bug really did need the proper amount of food she'd suspected one their size would need.

Midwife delighted in seeing her charges – two of them, anyways, Ghost was still poking at their food with a child's curiosity – eat so readily. Herrah knew the court manners, she'd learned them the hard way, working her way up to the point she caught the eye of the highborn heir and she found herself liking him, too, as more than a political gain. But once he had passed and a foreign king sired her child instead, she had primarily settled back into acting as she'd been raised, teaching Hornet the same behaviors. Oh, the child had changed as she began to spend more time at the palace, and Hollow reflected the same upbringing in how careful they were, how they tried to favor small bites and clean cuts that seemed much more effort than they were worth. But it seemed Hornet's time alone had done away with such useless things, and it was hard to counter a freshly-molted bug's hunger.

Hm, yes, she'd need to check on that, thinking of.

In fact, as soon as the morning meal was done, before anyone could gather the dishes and begin on them, or Hornet could dismiss herself for whatever task had gotten her in the position of bloodied and improperly molting in Greenpath of all places, Midwife clicked rapidly and the girl stilled. Even now, she remembered her caretaker's commands.

“Turn around.” Midwife already had her limbs on Hornet's shoulders, anyways, and spun her like a sewing mannequin.

“Midwife!” she protested, not that she could – or would – do much to change the situation. Ah, how Herrah's darling spiderling had sprouted into a grumpy, independent adolescent. Funny how she continued to cede to authority.

“I was thinking, dear,” Midwife said as she uncovered Hornet's wings, tucking the folds of fabric at the girl's neck, “Would you mind doing some reading for me later?”

“I'm in meetings with the City residents this afternoon. I have to attend to this drop in morale.” Hornet fluttered her wings as best she could. Not like that was much; Midwife had not seen many winged bugs (not ones that had much of a mind) but it looked like she had only gotten the wingtips out. But at the same time, they were firmly rooted in Hornet's back and she wasn't complaining about feeling like anything was stuck in there. Leave it to Higher Beings to not grow their wings in properly. It wouldn't be the first problem the Pale King passed down.

“You're planning on coming back at a reasonable hour, right?” Midwife craned her neck to look her charge in the eye, watching Hornet's expression shift from insult to frustrated resignation.

“...Yes, Midwife.”

“Wonderful.” She sat back as she had been, testing the wing buds and the surrounding plating. There had been some bleeding after the surgery, but Hornet was healing well. Except for the sensitivity that left her biting back hisses as Midwife worked, but that would be a longer-term thing in any case. “While you're there, could you get the gravid bugs to pack up and move down here? I would much hate to see them go without medical attention.”

Hornet sighed, all huffy and tired. “Am I running all your errands?”

“You are.” Midwife patted her cheek. “You lovely thing, you. You're free to go.”

Hornet did stick around long enough to do the dishes with everyone. Considering there already wasn't much to do, having four of them was enough bodies that it slowed down their process a little, not that Midwife minded. What else did she have to do besides be amused when Ghost marveled at wiping down a plate with a dishcloth, going in circles and circles and circles. This was the mind-reader? The one who could survive Deepnest alone?

But Hornet left before too long, and the Vessels let Midwife herd them down to her den, where she left them in the main room and she slipped into her tunnel, crawling along until she found her supply room. She had maintained everything well enough over the years, all the tools and nest materials and sundry things, some of which may or may not have been related to her work. Some would need to be checked on again, what with people coming. But for now, she grabbed a couple scrolls, inkwells, and pens.

Hollow and Ghost sat cross-legged, a perfect audience for whatever she had to say. That she put paper and pens down in front of them caught Hollow by surprise – they took a moment to look over the new items. 

“I've been thinking, it would be most helpful if we had a way to communicate abstract things. For example, taking notes on how a visit went. Now, I must admit I do not know Hallownest's script, but I presume you two do, so unless either of you want to surprise me with fluency in Deepnest's language, we'll stick to that for the moment, and someone will have to learn something from the other. You two can read, yes?”

Both of them nodded, with the same single, definite bob. How funny, that they began acting the same during lessons. Would this persist, Midwife wondered, if Ghost sat in with her and Hollow more often? Maybe she should think of more things for them both to attend. Or all three, even, if she could find a way to include Hornet.

“All right. Can you write your names?”

Both readily picked up the pens. Ghost did so without trouble, only taking a moment to adjust their grip. Hollow, however, struggled with the pen, so small in their hand. They just couldn't get it to sit right, no matter how they messed with their thumb, fingers, flipped the pen around and gripped it in new and unusual ways.

Ghost stood and went to help them, the two trying to come up with a good system. What if the arm they lost had been the one they would have written with? Well, that would be just a joy, wouldn't it?

It took a couple solid minutes before Ghost stepped away and sat down again, either satisfied or defeated. Hollow was, at least, holding the pen, gripped precariously between a finger and their thumb, braced for all it was worth against another finger.

The two dipped their pens in the ink. This time, Hollow watched Ghost before following suit, both of them careful not to pick up excess ink before setting pen to page.

Hollow froze up first. Ghost next, as they found their penstrokes creating a miniature self-portrait instead of words.

Ghost got up again, padding over to their sibling. When Hollow didn't look they tapped the bigger Vessel's knee, getting more and more insistent until Hollow couldn't simply ignore them. They gestured at themself, then at the page.

That, Hollow obliged to. Tapping their pen once, they lowered it onto the silk and began to write. They drew out over-exaggerated lines and loops with no flow to them. And as they wrote, the silk slipped against the floor, until Midwife held its top in place so Hollow wasn't constantly readjusting.

They wrote, in a painful, slow way, until their first word was _Ghost._

She didn't need to be able to read the script to know that. In turn, Ghost returned to their spot and wrote a single, solitary word which they showed to their sibling. _Hollow,_ it had to be.

Their handwriting shook less, wasn't as awkwardly sized. They wrote in a quick, practical, though still not very clear scrawl. Hollow, she could tell, tried to differentiate the characters more. Ghost could not have cared less.

“Very good,” Midwife said, finishing her inspection of their handwriting. Even if neither were all that great at it, she saw no sign of nerve troubles, just the sort of things she would expect of each of them. “Could you write 'Deepnest?'”

Both of them got to it. Hollow focused right on their sheet, carefully etching out each line. Ghost got partway through, stopped, pulled out their map, and read off of that, scratching out their first attempt to rewrite it.

Again, both of them had handwriting at about the level she would expect. Hollow put some effort into trying to improve, not that it seemed to do much. Ghost's handwriting was consistent.

“Right. Now...” She gathered the two of them close, as if letting them in on a secret. Which she supposed she was, this was to be a surprise, but the recipient wasn't supposed to be anywhere near Deepnest by now. Or, at the very least, on her way out instead of lingering around here. Certainly not in the den. “I've got one more writing task for you two today. I need you both to write something to your sister. You don't have to write together, you can write separately, but she's going to be reading these since I cannot. She likely doesn't know. Likely.”

It kept the two busy for a time. Sometimes they glanced at each other's letters, or stopped writing theirs entirely to read what the other had written. Ghost went much faster than Hollow, but paused more often to see what their sibling did. It was all perfectly fine with Midwife, who took the chance to prep some of her tools. Not all of them, she would save her next round of cleaning for when the writing lesson finished up and she could both clean everything and show them to Hollow in the process. Maybe Ghost, too, unless they went out to hunt and check traps.

Ghost did finish up first, rolling the silk back up into a scroll and handing it to her before rushing from the den, their cloak trailing long behind them. Longer than usual, she was sure. Somehow. Why had she ever let herself get mixed up with Higher Beings?

Because she cared about them. At least Ghost had proven she wasn't the only one, dragging all those people into Herrah's den. In her opinion, gods needed normal folk to ground them, and she'd seen nothing to prove her wrong.

She waited for Hollow to finish before gathering her tools and cleaning supplies, setting them out the way she'd been doing for years. Though she supposed she would have to start accounting for her apprentice's presence.

Oh, dear. The poor thing's hand shook as they handed her the scroll, and they didn't meet her eyes. The rise and fall of their thorax concerned her, too; it wasn't like they had undergone any great exertion, not physically, and yet.

“It's all right,” she cooed. She patted their cheek, turning them to face her. She did her best to smile behind her mask, if they would notice that at all, or just see the carved, serene happiness that covered it. “Think of how happy your sister's going to be, reading something from you. How proud. She'd not be the only one, either.” Her limbs rested on their shoulders, too, supporting them, though they didn't much need it any more. “Look at you. How far you've come. This is wonderful, my dear. I've seen quite the transformations before, and I couldn't be happier to see you progress like this.” Their head started to fall, and gently, she tilted it upwards again. “Yes, this is _progress,_ dear. It's like we're finally getting to meet _Hollow.”_

She waited for their shivering to slow, and for their breaths to fade again.

“Now,” she said, “Do you want to take a little more time?” A thought popped into her head, and she giggled at it. Ah, perfect. “I could teach you some breathing techniques that, according to some of my patients, have proven as good for worries as they are for egglaying. You'll want to learn them eventually, either way. Or you'll pick them up later. I'll want you around when the Hallownest bugs arrive so we only have to discuss each parent once.”

They nodded, gaze falling from her again with a soft tilt of their head.

Over the course of the lessons, they did relax. First, the breathing did seem to help, her and them taking the time to focus, to pay attention, to work with themselves. Then, the discussion of the tools. She went over as many of their uses as she could think of, including a few of the more creative ones, like during Hornet's surgery or some of the other more strange and complex things she had dealt with over her tenure. She also went over proper cleaning and maintenance, and had Hollow clean a few of the tools on their own, in part so they could get the feel for it and in part so she could see how they handled the task on their own.

There was plenty to cover. There was always plenty to cover. It didn't help that at least half of what she told them were stories. And, unlike when she was in polite company, she let herself get into as much detail as she needed, or pleased, or both. They would be dealing with all of it, too, best not to let them get too sanitized an idea of the whole process. Sure, most of the time it went fine, but the times it didn't...

She had not yet banished those thoughts when she heard voices outside her den. “Come in!” she called, and retreated back into her tunnel with just the frontmost part of her body sticking out. A quick scrub of her face, and she and Hollow were ready for visitors.

There were only a few, primarily taller blue beetles, only one of the smaller bugs Midwife had come to see as the “standard” Hallownest bugs, when they came to try and build their tram, and their stag station. All of them stayed towards the far end of the den, whispering among themselves with cautious eyes on her and Hollow.

Hornet slipped inside, and the gaggle relaxed some, tensing again as she gestured for them to follow, and specifically to approach Midwife.

“She'll be taking care of you,” Hornet told them, stern but concerned, maybe even a little warm. She almost sounded like her mother. “You can trust her, and my sibling – they are her apprentice, expect them to be present, too. She took care of me, she's very competent.”

“Hello,” she crooned, emerging more fully from her tunnel to get a better look. They all froze while she looked them over; just a cursory examination now, each would get something more in-depth once they had settled in some. “I am Midwife, friend to all and servant to the nest. How lovely it will be, to have people to tend to again.”

Hm. The standard bug and one of the sentries hardly looked gravid at all. The other two sentries, though... One looked visibly uncomfortable, and was far enough along that really, how had she made it down here with her clutch still in her? Yet Midwife had a feeling one of the others would surprise her before this one laid.

“May I sit?” the sentry asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot, “The stag ride here was bumpy.”

“Of course, of course.”

The conversation flowed more easily once the newcomers had found places to sit down. It definitely helped when Hollow sat down instead of towering over everybody. They all introduced themselves, discussed living arrangements, and on the later side, Midwife finally got the conversation to her standard discussions of how business would go, how to contact her, what the plan would be, how long she would like them to stay.

It was her turn to feel a little guilty as she led the parents-to-be back to the homes they'd temporarily taken in the village, and made her way back to Herrah's den, Hollow close behind.

“Hornet,” she called. Where had she gone? The den was too big when it was empty like this. Hornet needed to pick up a retinue of Devout or somesuch, someone louder than her siblings. “Hornet?”

Hornet, as it turned out, was sitting in the meeting room, staring at slabs of stone all marked up with Hallownest script. Her head rested heavy in her hands, and her eyes glazed over. She muttered something about how her parents managed to do this, hardly acknowledging Midwife with a twitch of her head.

“Hornet?”

The girl finally realized she was _there_ and startled, flipping the tablet in her hands. She cursed and turned it right side up again, wearing a deep frown. “Midwife, I'm busy.”

“I know, dear, but you did say you would read some things for me. All I need is the spelling and grammar checked. Annotate it however you wish.” Midwife dropped the scrolls beside the tablet and backed off. “I'll leave you to it.”

She heard an exhausted sigh, but she knew. She knew all she had to do was wait.


	46. Letters I: From Your Heart

Ghost

Deepnest

~~Salutations~~

Dearest Sister,

There is so much to tell you, after years and years. Is there, truly, any place to begin?

Regardless of any ability for speech, or skill at signing, what is there to have said? You have learned to understand well, despite what little time we had. You have always been incisive, and confident, though much else has changed. That we can catch up with each other is a blessing in and of itself. You have grown into a fine young princess, one who will no doubt overcome the difficulties of rebuilding to make something incredible and very much your own.

How could anyone be anything but proud of you?

Do you recall those long-lost days in the Palace? Where you sought to play games, to bring something new and so alive to those gilded halls? There was a magic to it that lingered after you left to return to your mother's home. Even the first time you came, mere months from your hatching, only for the day, and always with Herrah, and you almost spent all of it crying from the brightness, getting to see you for the first time was the only thing the Great Knights spoke of for days. Five grand warriors, all entranced. They were hardly the only ones.

Getting to see you, to hold you, that night you hatched, was a privilege of the highest degree. Watching you grow brought joy in some of Hallownest's darkest days.

Thank you. For saving me.

You told me I was worth saving.

~~Sincerely~~

~~From~~

With Love,  
Hollow

–

hollow

deepnest

sistersister! Hornetsister! is ghost name is ghost you gave me name!! i am ghost! good and perfect name yes you know you gave it this good and perfect name

many words. how to put words together? how to remember all the words? no no no words out in wasteland land between no memory of words of places of people only hallownest only sister and siblings.

so many siblings, there then gone now they wished to sleep more ghosts all ghosts children children tired children hollow and hornet not children but also yes they are big i am not big is grown and adult same? is same???

many many words, so many. no voice to cry suffering but hands to draw and write and make and use nail. save up the words for sister give you all the words so many to give of hallownest and gods and things.

sister is us and not us and spiders. sorrysorry for herrah for mother she loves you she loves you hornet is stern but not cold hornet is very full of love for sibling and for mother and for hallownest

is full of love for ghost, too?

gave me name

name is love?

–

Hornet only realized she had rubbed a tear off her face when her hand felt damp. She stood, rolled up the scrolls, picked them up, hesitated, set them down again with a reverence.

Where were they? Hollow, at least, was not usually easy to miss.

She found them in their room, sitting against the wall, still hemming the pieces to their dress, working by candlelight. They looked up, poked the needle into the fabric, and set the dress aside, attentive.

She threw her arms around them, as best she could, craning her neck to rest her chin on their shoulder. Squeezing her eyes shut, more tears threatened, then dared to tumble down her cheeks.

Three times, she opened her mouth, trying to come up with something to say. Hollow didn't mind, wrapping their arm around her and tucking her head behind their jaw. She stammered, and pressed her face into their shoulder, taking in a deep breath.

Finally, she managed to warble, “Your handwriting is awful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's short! I did some math and I think I needed to cut it here to time things right.


	47. Well This Is Your Home

Everything ached, particularly her arms and back. Though her legs weren't faring much better. Also, her wings and fluff felt far too hot.

And to think there were so many bodies left to bury.

The Radiance leaned on her shovel, heaving too-warm breaths. Seer had told her she needed more time, that she hadn't yet recovered from her coma. She was mortal now, after all. Her body was frail, and fragile, and prone to failure.

Such things were unacceptable. Yes, the first day the Radiance had been able to stand, and take more than a few steps before she came crashing down, she had taken the shovel and painstakingly made her way down to where the surface graves gave way to the crypts below. She had only been able to manage a few pitiful strikes to the earth before she dropped the shovel and collapsed against a coffin. Seer had sat beside her until her strength began to return; the old moth couldn't exactly help carry her all the way back.

But now she could spend her days digging graves.

And she would have to.

That was her fate. She would take it. It was something, it made a mark, and the aches and exhaustion and the dirt tangled in her fluff reminded her she was so gloriously alive.

Was this the last laugh? She had seen no sign of that wretched wyrm, besides his abandoned children. As best as she knew, he had either fled Hallownest or died. Meanwhile, here she was, in the physical realm, known, living, making something of herself. Whatever had happened to him, he wasn't digging his half of the graves.

Most of her time, she spent in the Resting Grounds alongside Seer. There had been some husks there, now permanently dead. They each had a grave, now, marked with their names and stories to the best of the Radiance's memory. To let them lay about forgotten, after all, would be the cruelest act.

So now she branched out, in the quieter places. Those with few survivors, those so far gone to the incidental illness that they could not survive without her, or where survivors tended to be beings of low minds. Those quiet crossroads that held her prison, the peak where she had risen to power again, and sometimes the lake pouring into the City, on those occasions when she decided she would like to see pretty things. Never the City proper. Never the edge of the blasted kingdom, covered in that wyrm's molt. She'd burn her fluff off wherever those horrid flakes touched it if she went, and come back as bald as a snail.

Any time she thought she heard someone coming, she ducked out of sight. Only twice had someone actually been passing by who stood a chance of recognizing her. Still, she had found some fabric in an abandoned house not far from the surface and fashioned herself a hooded cloak. It would not prevent recognition if someone looked directly at her face, or spotted her wings, or other more moth-like features, but it would at least give her cover at a distance.

Seer had watched as she stitched. The moth had been polite enough not to ask where the Radiance learned to sew, sparing her from having to respond with what she had done to Deepnest. The spiders, much like the mantises, had remained a fairly neutral party in the realms of gods, uninterested in providing anyone worship beyond their own dead. Up until their queen got involved, but even then, nobody in Deepnest thought it was for the Pale King's sake.

At least the majority of them, the Weavers in particular (the Devout were stubborn, loyal to their queen, though some willingly took the strength she could offer) had fled before the illness infected them. That mitigated the damages.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind. She wasn't going to be able to do much more work today, and she knew something had caught on her cloak. It needed checking over to ensure the damage wasn't too bad, and to repair whatever had happened.

She focused on the scenery, during the walk from the crossroads to the Resting Grounds. Her entire body itched whenever she got too close to the Temple, and she could feel her limbs constrict, her breaths tighten, her heart thunder in her thorax, whenever she found herself in the wrong place. In her opinion, there were still far too many wrought symbols of the king. She'd taken pleasure in mauling one with her shovel, once, only to come back and find it fixed later.

She still whacked one as she passed it by, snickering. Sometimes revenge was a petty, petty thing. At least nobody was here to see this instance of it.

So quiet. It was so quiet, with only the barest rustle of a breeze blowing down from the surface. Some critters scuttled about, scarred and lagging. It made her stomach ache, and she crossed her arms, the shovel barred across her abdomen, squeezing the feeling away.

Until she ran into a smaller corridor while so distracted. The air rushed from her with a wheeze, and she stumbled back. Fine. She would use the shovel as a cane, instead. A heavy, awkward cane. Maybe more of a walking stick.

Nobody found her, during the walk back. It was, all in all, rather a normal day. She had done some good, hard work, and now she was ready to check her cloak, get some food, and rest. For all the drawbacks, being mortal did have some small perks. Gods rarely deigned to get involved with events on the same physical level as their worshipers. Was this what her brother liked about using a vessel?

Perhaps, under better circumstances, she would have gotten along better with hers. Maybe she would have been all right, riding along in their physical form while they went about their un-life, taking in the work of being a knight, and of playing around with the little spiderling, while she did her work within her realm.

She curled a finger around one of the Whispering Root's branches as she passed it, fluttering from platform to platform. She could still practically taste the Essence pulsing through it.

After leaning her shovel against the side of the hut and brushing off what dirt she could, she entered, inhaling the herbal aroma of brewing tea. Seer had gotten into trying her own blends, wandering around outside with a tablet on local edible herbs, and huddling over her teapot with bundled of dried plants and another tablet, along with a scroll she'd scribbled down recipes on. And, of course, she always sang while she worked, or hummed, or chanted. She liked working spells into the teas.

“I've been thinking,” Seer said without even looking up from the leaves and flowers she counted out.

The Radiance ruffled her fluff, waiting for Seer to continue while she sought out a cleaning rag and a sewing kit. Seer did this, sometimes, and at first the Radiance had feared the old moth was going senile. Her gut clenched at the idea of losing her one companion. Without any moths left here, what would hold her to these lands she called home? Anyone else would be hostile.

...Would she be left to wander, another nomad god?

Oh, please don't let this mean she would have to join her brother and his ridiculous Troupe.

“You could use a proper name. Calling you 'the Radiance' all the time, that's rather clunky, isn't it?”

The Radiance blinked. She... she supposed it got that way, sometimes. Granted, what she considered her true name was not something mortal-assigned, but rather a burst of sensations and emotion only properly experienced in the dream realm. She was going to throttle the Shade Lord for stealing her connection to it. She liked her name. She made it herself.

“That I could,” she said, slowly. What names would she go by? There were so many options, and yet so few, limited to mortal noises.

“I might need you to tell me of some names from those early days, before we stole ourselves away.” Seer, satisfied with her tisane, added it to the teapot and bobbed over to check the kettle. “I doubt you want a name like mine, or like, ah, hmm, Markoth.” Seer drifted off, into a longing hum.

The Radiance, even severed from her control over dreams, knew intrigue when she saw it. Desire was, after all, a tangent to dreams, and thus been rather easy to sense and work with. She plunked herself down, sewing kit in hand, and bit down her mirth to ask, “Tell me of this Markoth.”

“Oh, him. Handsome fellow, though he left us in pursuit of the nail's bite. The others thought to pretend he never existed, but I'd not forget him.” Seer sighed. Her eyes had gone misty, preoccupied with thought. “He really was quite handsome.”

Intrigue indeed, even long gone. The Radiance couldn't hide her delight at finding it now. “You sound like you fancied him.”

Seer nodded. “If he'd not been so moody and full of himself I'd have done unspeakably dirty things with him.”

Ah, yes. The Radiance understood this well. From her followers, generally, not her personal experiences, but that's how she got a wide range to compare against. She chortled; she'd need to ask about this Markoth fellow more, and see what other memories Seer had hidden away.

She was a forgiving god, the moths need not go forgotten. She wished to know how her people had fared, before they evidently fell. A moth, turning to violence. What had the Pale King done to them? The only other to wield a weapon that she knew of had gone adventuring, and required it for safety.

“To my original question, what sort of names did moths have back...” The kettle began to sing its one-note song, and Seer went to attend to it. Steam billowed as she poured the water into the teapot, clouding around her face. “Back before?”

Ignoring the sting to her heart, that she was _before,_ of the events that were _after,_ the Radiance said, “Thistlewind. Gleamsong. Shimmer. Raindrop. Things of that nature.”

Seer sputtered, holding her wrist to her face to laugh into that instead of barking out the sound. Her wings shifted, not quite up for a flutter but the intent was there. “They really were?”

The Radiance nodded, slowly. Of course that's how it was. She had been their god. She named most of them. She would know.

“No, no, it's just that-” Seer had not been looking, but now, with nothing better to do than watch tea steep, she turned to the Radiance, leaning back against the table she'd set the teapot on. Her eyes fell to the sewing kit, reminding the Radiance that right, yes, she had grabbed that for a reason. “When my mentor trained me in our history, I had thought she was kidding when she told me the old names. And it's not like our history described notable _individuals_ to associate the names and the time period all together with.”

“Well, that's how the names were, no matter what's thought of them.” But as for a name for herself... She frowned.

“Lightbearer would be rather on the nose, wouldn't it?” Seer asked.

Yes. Yes it would be. “Perhaps we should avoid light-based theming,” the Radiance said. But what could one say of her without mentioning Light? That was the very core of her being. Anything else would ring false.

She scowled, pushing her chin into her hands. There had to be something that fit. Something that-

Something was _wrong._

A soft flap of wings. Tiny footsteps. Seer looked up and swore.

The Lord of Shades had come, and there was no way the Radiance could hide.

Light and Shadow stared into each others' eyes. Somewhere, deep in those empty pits, the Radiance swore she saw eight pinpricks of light, tracking her, daring her to make a move. They had a pure nail and the full strength of the Void. She had the exhaustion of a long day's work.

“Well?” Her voice remained strong, though her heart stumbled. She glared. She would not die a coward, unlike their father. “Strike me down, then.”

They did nothing.

“Go on. Once I'm through you can bury the rest of the bodies yourself.”

Nothing still.

Her glare turned into a glower. “Do you brag over my fate? If I am not run through by the end of-”

They stepped forwards. Her stomach clenched, but she willed it to relax. She would not die a coward. She would be stronger than the Pale King. She had to be.

They did not unsheath their nail. Nothing stabbed into her. No spell engulfed her. Instead, they did worse. They reached out, with those child's hands, delicate and cute, and buried them in her fluff. Little fingers, the perfect size for grasping onto a parent or sibling for security, for raking through mud and grass in wild, ephemeral games, for learning to hold a stylus or needle or brush, ran through the fluff, catching on and untangling knots, pawing at the silken strands.

Her heart quickened, and she forced herself steady. Her vision blurred, fading into white eyes, giant claws, thorned tendrils, lashing her down, plucking her from the sky and tearing her open. Her wings trembled. No, all of her did. Dizziness overtook her, bur she couldn't move, and it dug deeper until it was a headache, a stomachache, a full-body crescendo of pain.

They lifted away, death-white visage replaced with soft purple and gray. A familiar voice, a soothing voice, spoke in the murky distance.

She couldn't shake it. Seeing the darkness swarm. Her captor, her captive, the Not-So-Hollow-Knight, their very shade's face cracked (and it was their shade- they were not whole in her realm any more), grabbing the edges of her face and _pulling,_ exposing her very core. Their fury, pain, and fear, pouring into her, spitting their torture into her eye. Their siblings, tiny things, identical eyes set into different faces, rising up around them while their future Lord tore their way out of their shell, a godly cocoon.

They had been small at first, though with tendrils far longer than any of the others summoned. They struck her with those, over and over, each hit burning cold, sapping her. Her life drained out with each hit, and when she struggled the others swarmed her, holding her limbs down, marking her with shadowy claws and bites.

Until one grabbed the future Lord. All of them, now imbued with an idea, piled onto them, the Void coalescing, eyes disappearing into a dark mass. When the siblings weren't enough, more Void welled up, washing over them. The others let her go, but the Hollow Knight never did, though they longed. Oh, they longed to reunite, to become nothing now and forever more.

The Void found a new form, an old form, new limbs and horns sprouting, too vast for her to see its full size. Eight eyes opened, drinking in the sight of its greatest enemy at its mercy.

It drowned her, burned her down to nothing. Nothing but this feeble, mortal shell. Nothing but-

A warm mug pressed into her hands. The scent of sweet herbs kissed her. Purple eyes, fogged with age but with a sharp mind behind them, overtook her vision. Two thin, aged hands held her face, turned her this way and that, then helped lift the mug of tea to her mouth, encouraged her to unfurl her proboscis and drink a long, hot sip.

“There we go. Drink up, let's see if it'll do some good for you.”

She obeyed the command, gentle as it was. Another sip, settling warm in her stomach and leaving an impression of its heat all the way down.

“All right. You're getting heavy for these old arms. Down you go, and no touching her. You'd not like it if someone scared your sibling like that, would you?”

A small body dropped to the floor and stayed put. The Lord of Shades crossed their legs and folded their arms, all proper like they had been the one their father raised in that blinding palace of his.

Seer returned shortly, setting another mug before the Lord of Shades and sitting to the side, somewhat closer to the Radiance, ready to mediate. She unfurled a folded paper and passed it over.

The Radiance set her mug down and took the paper, unable to stop her hands from trembling as she turned it over to read.

_thanks ~~isalda~~ Iselda_

_dreams. how do dreams? make dreams, make hope, give hope to city, city does_

Her eyes narrowed and she reread the scant couple sentences. What? How do... all right. Yes, she understood. The Lord of Shades was not used to their new power. And, unlike her, when they didn't control the dream realm properly, it faded.

“You-” Her mouth felt dry. She drank more of the tea, took a breath, and tried again, “You want me to teach you how to use the dream realm.”

They nodded.

“The realm you stole from me.”

They shrugged.

“That realm.”

They nodded again, more dismal this time. Strange, how precisely they looked like a scolded child. What else were they, really?

She sighed, a shaky and uncertain sound. She huddled closer around her cup of tea, as if its meager warmth could drive off the cold, the sheer nothingness, that the Lord of Shades gave off. Another, long sip delayed her needing to speak.

This would not be simple. Shadow was her antithesis. It harmed her, it stole her power, and in turn she burned it and drove it away. Why did bugs ever like that horrid substance, the pressing darkness? What good could it do to her realm?

“Are you avoiding it,” she asked, the words thick, barely eased by the tea, “Or are you smothering it? The dreams.”

They did nothing, and so she continued, “Both will do harm. To avoid them, and to pull dreams away, will bring listlessness. They will waste away, without the desire to do anything to better themselves. To overcompensate, and force...” Orange light, flooding their mind so thoroughly it had nowhere else to go save for their bodies.

“To force more dreams into them...” Light flooding them, taking up all of them. People entranced, accepting her in some cases. Some of them knew, and fought her. How could they fight her, their rightful ruler? Their loyalty to that blasted wyrm fueled her anger, and she tore them up from the inside out. It bubbled and burst free from them just as it had with The Hollow Knight, spilling out of their eyes, down their backs, and dripping down their limbs.

Of course the Lord of Shades wouldn't overcompensate. They had just lived with that, come home to Hallownest to defeat it. Dreams would terrify them. Why would they ever wish to grant dreams? All they had ever known of them was pain and suffering.

Her Light, her hope, her dreams, reduced to a tool of misery. How could she debase them so?

“...Would be to destroy who they are.”

In the corner of her eye she saw Seer nodding, eyes closed. As if the Radiance had finally gotten a lesson. As if she was supposed to be the student, not the teacher, not the goddess who had cared for her people for so long.

“In proper balance,” she said, sputtering, tripping over herself in an attempt to explain, to keep this going, to make it education for this godling. This creature who had spared her, and sought her for assistance. “All people work together to achieve great dreams. That is- that is as I did with my moths, and all others who accepted my divinity. Your father could never have created such an era of peace, of mutual understanding.”

It was true. She knew it true. She had seen the people's memories of toil, of people asserting themselves over each other, being selfish and cruel because they no longer knew of other lives as lives the same as their own. Her moths had understood each other, at a deep level, knew their joys and pains and worked towards group harmony. A rare few had ventured out, often when her brother got ideas and dove into them, driving painful things into their hearts.

They rapped the how they had written, a desperate staccato, blank eyes locked on hers. Truly, they knew nothing of godhood?

She shifted, pulling her wings in, drawing them around her like Seer did. How did one explain breathing? Or the formation of a thought?

What would keep the balance? She could not tempt them into smothering everyone; the only being of Light left was the White Lady, and though the Radiance had not cared much about her, she knew of the Lady's kind, and knew strengthening her to overtake this being of Shadow (if she could get to that point) would leave them with a third plague, filling Hallownest with overgrowth.

...Perhaps she ought to have taken inspiration from Unn, and slept. Or convinced the Pale King to take a nap. That would have saved her so, so much trouble.

“You sort of...” The Radiance waved a hand. How did it feel? How did it feel, when she was not shaking and nauseous at the echoes of pain, of her power and anger bursting carapaces? It hurt so much, even so far removed from her prison her arm ached, slowly going numb to follow her memory of it.

“You envelop them,” she said after a pause. “In...” Herself? Some greater thing? A deep-set emotion? It had been anger for so long, what did peace, prosperity, and happiness feel like?

“Love, perhaps?”

(Ex-)gods of Light and Shadow looked up, startled out of their thoughts by Seer speaking up. The old moth looked between the two of them, humming. “In terms of how to handle the matter of dreams.”

Love... that could work. If the Void had thus far proved to have some sort of capacity for emoting, there was a chance. Certainly the Lord of Shades was freer with their thoughts and feelings than The Hollow Knight had been. The Radiance nodded. “Yes. Consider the people you know. Are they affected by this?”

The Lord of Shades shook their head.

“Then-” the words that had to follow grew bitter. These were her lands. She shared them, to a degree, with the gods she could make peace with. And here she was, about to tell her murderer, her natural-born enemy, her rival's child, how to take it. Though she stuttered, and started to speak, she could not get the vile words out.

“Love the people,” Seer spoke, when the Radiance proved she could not. “Love them all, like you do your siblings, and your friends. Love them, and want them to grow, and be happy. That's what gods do for their people, after all. They all need love, in a time like this.”

 _But they are Shadow,_ part of her insisted. _Could they even know love?_

They did, though. She knew it, as deeply as she knew she did. She swam in it, The Hollow Knight's love. Love for their kingdom, for their family, for their father in particular. She had watched this one, this Ghost, try and negotiate the conflict between their siblings, even if their only method of doing so was to go to Seer about it.

As if to prove the old moth's point, Ghost stood, purposeful, and walked up to Seer, opening their arms a slight bit. When she reciprocated they sat in her lap and snuggled her, relaxing while she stroked their back and curtained them away with her wings.

Jealousy stung the Radiance's heart, but she would not give into it. They were a child. She knew this. They were acting as children do.

“I know, little one,” Seer cooed, rocking with the Lord of Shades clutching her tight. “Nobody's taught you how to be a god.”

A lump caught in the Radiance's throat.

Nobody else taught them.

Would she?


	48. To Pull Me From Myself Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some more general descriptions/stories from Midwife's line of work in this chapter, just letting y'all know!

Ghost had come back days after they left to go hunting. Hornet had not been terribly concerned, though she had to admit to a rock of worry sitting in her gut. But they were plenty capable, and when she asked around in the City, Mikei said they had pointed off towards the Kingdom's Edge, or maybe the Resting Grounds, when asked where they were going. They would be fine. They were fine, they showed up unharmed, as if nothing was wrong and they had not wandered off to accomplish whatever business they had.

Some tug, deep inside, something she swore felt familiar but old, like it had spent the entirety of the stasis gathering dust, had pulled Hornet to gather her siblings and ascend the Howling Cliffs with them. The wind wailed, as always, bitterly cold.

Ghost didn't care. She didn't think Hollow did, either, but it was hard to tell.

They hadn't been able to stop shaking.

It was like the wind had whipped her mind away, leaving only the child who knew her sibling as a stoic and graceful knight. The trembling, the distance in their gaze, unfocused on anything... it was familiar and very much not.

They followed, that was good.

“Come on,” she ushered, shooing them into the cavern they had come here for. They did not meet her eyes, did not even look her way.

Ghost ran in first, of course, unburdened by Hollow, unlike Hornet who had a heavy hand on her shoulder, her sibling all slouched over to avoid scraping their horns.

Mato met them at the doorway to help ease Hollow inside. His bright smile wobbled when he saw their state, and he muttered to them as everyone came in. They let him lead them to the fireplace, and he sat them down, patting them on the shoulders until he was certain they were no more cold than was acceptable for them, nor were they about to fall over.

Ghost crawled into their lap, slipping off Hollow's ankles to plonk in the gap between their crossed legs, head against Hollow's torso.

Her siblings were settled. Mato got a fire going, so it wasn't quite so frigid in the hut. Soon she could speak to him about a second round of sparring, to see if Hollow could take the physical exertion for longer this time, and-

Big arms wrapped around her, securing her to an armored, solid wall of torso. Her winglets twitched, but it didn't hurt, she didn't feel crushed, or trapped.

“It's so good to see you again,” Mato rumbled, giving her the slightest extra squeeze.

What did she do? She couldn't think, couldn't react. In part because Mato had sort of pinned her arms, albeit unintentionally, and in part because she had gotten more hugs in these past few weeks than since...

Than since the stasis, certainly. Perhaps since she lost her mother.

Mato had already seen her at her most vulnerable, he had stepped up to care for her people when she could not. He had sat there and wrapped her up in warm towels to help her, just because. And it felt nice, in a strange way that slowly edged into her heart, spreading from the center while the rest of her thorax clenched, expecting it to be torn away, for it to cause her harm.

She couldn't wrap her arms around him, not by far. But she slipped her arms free and held onto him, as best as she could. He chortled, and she could feel his laugh reverberate through him. Bit by bit, as if he would suddenly scorch her on contact, she rested her head against his abdomen. She blinked. What was she doing? Why did this have to feel so... so...

Safe?

He pet her horn, fingertips drawing from the base to the tip in short, friendly strokes. It felt like a distant memory, a vague impression of her mother doing the same when picking her up from the Palace or from Midwife's den, the knowledge she was going home.

“Are you feeling better, then? Did you grow some more? I swear you and I will be looking each other in the eye soon!” He laughed again, his armor juddering with the sound. He patted her back, and the two let go. Already, Hornet missed it.

She walked with him over to her siblings, sitting cross-legged while Mato shared a hug with Ghost and, when they let go, turned to Hollow. He paused, and his head tilted, studying their expression.

“Are they all right? Hollow? Is everything okay?”

With her sibling not much in a state to answer, and Ghost trying to answer in hops, Hornet spoke. “The last day or so proved overwhelming. A long night likely did not help.”

Mato's confusion reigned for a moment longer, before his expression lit up and he stood straight, “Ahh”-ing in understanding. “They're apprenticed under the centipede – Midwife, correct?”

She nodded. A spot of pride bloomed, drawing a smile across her face. “They are. Two of the City bugs laid last night.”

She did not know much of the story, but she told what she knew, mostly pieced together from Midwife's distracted rambling while she returned Hollow after they'd passed out, exhausted, in her den. Hornet had awoken to the sound of Midwife waking Hollow in the night and practically dragging them out the door. Apparently Rakkol, the bug who had thought she was going to lay first (and quite frankly looked more than ready to do so), and whom Midwife thought would be second, had bad cramps and didn't want to leave her nest. When they arrived, Noon, the bug who thought she would lay second – and Midwife thought she would be first – was comforting her, and said she was fine herself. Well, up until Rakkol was about ready to lay and Noon started acting odd. Hollow had to run to get her nesting materials and set them up for her, Midwife calling out instructions and halfway supervising them and Noon while she tended to Rakkol.

Of course, that was about all she knew. Midwife had also been busy lording over her position in her argument with Rakkol; apparently the sentry thought she had been right, and Midwife thought _she_ had been right, since Noon finished laying before Rakkol did, even though Rakkol started first. Hornet refused to get involved.

Either way, Hollow had been overwhelmed, to say the least. It was a far cry from serving as a knight, that was for sure. Hornet had worried they were upset, that it reminded them of the Abyss and all their abandoned siblings, but on the occasions she did manage to shake them from their awestruck stupor, they nuzzled her and patted her and held her hand between their fingers, holding it up to her face as if to say, _“Can you imagine you were an egg once? An itty bitty hatchling? Adorable.”_

No, her sibling was overjoyed, and didn't know what to do about it. While they were napping Midwife had taken Hornet aside to mutter to her, asking for her to get Hollow up and out so they could wind down from their emotional high. It was their first successful job as her apprentice, after all, and as far as anyone knew, the two first viable clutches in Hallownest since the stasis fully set in.

Hornet would have been shaking with excitement, too, if she wasn't concerned for the world they'd hatch in. She had to make it _better,_ somehow, but better felt so far away.

Mato was less concerned with that, and more with embracing Hollow, rocking them side to side with glee. “How wonderful! That must be so exciting! Imagine, soon everyone will be chasing down all the hatchlings. Hah! I hope you are ready to babysit.”

They didn't respond, their head resting on Mato's collar. They, too, were getting more hugs than they'd gotten before. Ghost, she could not tell. They had taken right to the concept of physical affection, though. If Hollow was going to help raise hatchlings, though, as Midwife did... They would have to adjust to the concept quickly. It had been a long time since she was young and running around the palace, chasing them in hopes of a game.

The teakettle whistled soon enough, and Mato let go, dismissing himself to pour everyone some tea. Whatever he had, it seemed to be slightly fresher this time; or, perhaps, Hornet had stopped caring so much about the quality of tea in the efforts of rebuilding a once-dead kingdom.

He sat with them, hunched over his own mug of tea. “So,” he said, pausing to cool the tea and take a sip. “Are you here to train some more? Another friendly spar?” He grinned at the idea.

“If you are amenable,” Hornet said. She nodded towards her siblings; Ghost was too preoccupied drinking their tea, fascinated by their own ability to consume things, to respond, but she knew they would like it. Even if they didn't spar with Mato on their own, they would watch her or Hollow.

As for her older – taller – sibling, they considered the matter, chelicerae gently scraping their mug while they thought. They had chosen their own path, one far from knighthood. Were they at all interested in fighting any more, even if it was just a bout of sparring, now that they had taken such a turn?

They nodded, and continued sipping their tea like they were an attendee at one of the White Lady's social functions. She supposed it was the only way they kept from downing the entire mug in one swig. Ghost, meanwhile, could have reasonably been served a helping of soup in their mug, the same size as Hollow's, and called it a hearty dinner.

“Indeed! Perhaps after you have had a chance to rest from the walk up here. But! I shall get the staffs.” Mato stood, tilting his head back to get more tea. He miscalculated and sputtered when tea splashed onto his face. Head forwards, mug down, he blinked, getting over the surprise. “And I shall dry off.”

Hornet hid a grin, but couldn't hide a snort.

Mato set his mug down while he got the training weapons out. Wherever they were, they were not as buried as last time; Hornet heard minimal clatter and banging, though she caught some confused muttering. He brought them out and set them aside, then went to get a rough, worn towel and scrubbed his face dry, giving his head an extra shake when he finished with the towel for good measure.

“Now,” he said, sitting again, mug in hand, “I had been concerned about having the advantage, having spent my day here at home while the three of you had to travel to me. Clearly, it is I who needs the lesson in grace and balance.”

He looked far too pleased with himself when Hornet laughed, Ghost patted their ankles, and even Hollow's shoulders shook.

It was quiet, while the siblings finished their tea and everyone huddled around the fire to warm up. (Hornet and Mato, as the ones not made of Void, ended up closest to the fire, though Ghost occasionally shoved their head between them or under one of their arms to get a closer look at the flames.) The wind was nothing more than a distant groaning from here, with only a rare gust eddying down the cavern.

At last, while the last of the daylight, what little filtered in anyways, faded, Hollow stood. They stretched, as best they could, and Mato perked up, back straightening as he watched them.

They made their way across the room to the training staffs, reaching out and ever so gently touching them. Their hand came to rest on one, but before they could finish grasping it they looked to Mato, a clear question.

He nodded, and joined them, picking out the staff they didn't have a hand on.

“It is an honor to train with you, and learn what you have to teach,” Mato said. Part of it sounded ritual, but there was no mistaking the honesty tying the words together.

Hollow, in response, bowed, until their face was level with Mato's.

And with that, the match began.

They circled each other, less sizing each other up and more of permitting each other to find the proper space, as called for by the codes of knight and Nailmaster. And, once they had found it, both struck a ready stance, eyes meeting.

A breath's pause, and they surged forwards.

Mato feinted, rolled back to avoid Hollow's charge. They stepped to the side, avoiding his return jab. Both swung, staffs clacking as they met. They tensed, pushing against each other, only for Hollow to break the parry and step free of Mato's range.

Clacks and cracks filled the hut. Mato and Hollow's cloaks whirled like falling flowers as they pressed in, evaded, sought an opening. Whatever one tried, the other met. Every strike and step formed a language, an interplay of dialects so similar, and yet Hornet picked out Mato's focus on raw power, while Hollow hid it behind elegance. Either making contact would be painful, and she could almost feel the shockwave of blocking either one directly, but it was easier to want to wince away from Mato's attacks, with how he put his weight into them, and the huff of his breath and sharp shouts he made, perfectly timed to complement each move.

Ghost bobbed, as if they were there, too, in the middle of the fight. Yet they stayed on the sidelines, focused intently on their sibling and teacher.

Did something change in the air? Hornet tensed.

Moments after, Hollow struck the staff against the floor. Beams of light shot up, catching Mato off guard. He stumbled, shielding his eyes, directly into one of the beams.

The light died down with no nails summoned, nothing spearing Mato, or the counter, or anything else in the hut. Hollow stood straight, staff falling to their side, at ease. The fight was over, or at least on pause until the rules could be renegotiated.

Mato blinked, slowly uncurling and lowering his hand. He nodded to Hollow – the fight was indeed over. He did not speak immediately, taking the time to catch his breath, hands resting behind his horns.

“So. There was indeed something missing. I felt you were going easy on me.” Mato leaned on the counter, setting his staff against the wall. He heaved an exhale, nodding to himself. “I recall you attempting a spell last time. Ah, if I had thought of it sooner! That certainly would have bested me. Fantastic work.”

Hollow glanced back, surveying the space they had threatened to fill with spell-nails. No, if it had fired, property damage would have been the most minor result, let alone whatever would happen to Mato.

He patted their arm, rough and familiar, more like how the Great Knights had treated each other than how people treated The Hollow Knight. “It's all right. We can find somewhere outdoors to spar next time, and I shall be more aware of my surroundings. Though maybe... don't commit to them. Just do it like you did today. I would hate to stick us all with a sparring accident. Oh, if my brothers knew, too...”

“Like Sheo?” Hornet asked.

“Yes! Exactly like Sheo! Have you met him?” The sheer enthusiasm on Mato's face made Hornet think of what Sheo had said, about Mato following him around everywhere.

She nodded, shifting to the side as Hollow sat down between her and Ghost, the smaller Vessel piling back into their lap. “We visited him and his partner in Greenpath, and did some painting with-”

“Wait, hold on.” Mato waved for her to stop. “Partner?”

Again, she nodded, slower this time. “Yes, his name is Lias. The old nailsmith, who used to reside outside the City of Tears?”

“Oooh, and I didn't hear a thing!” Mato threw his hands in the air, his cape flaring at the motion. Crossing them again, foot tapping, he said, “Perhaps... perhaps I ought to pay him a visit. It's been some time, and I would much like to see him again. Ghost here did learn his Nail Art, maybe we can both speak as Nailmasters still.”

Hm. Well... Hornet shrugged, a small movement. Hollow did the same, albeit with a more dramatic rise and drop, at least on the one side.

“We did paint with him when we visited, rather than train with weapons. But-” It was interesting? Different? Calming? Mato's face had fallen some, though he tried to hide it, and Hornet did not want to discourage him. He had gone to all this effort for her – for his family, too, she supposed, and it sounded like the two did care for each other. “It was a worthwhile change of pace. Variety of skill is important.”

Mato nodded; through his disappointment, she thought she saw a growing consideration, a thoughtfulness. “I suppose. To see him again...”

He was quiet, for a time, not looking at anyone or anything in particular, lost in thought.

Cautiously, so strange a tone to hear from one such as himself, he asked, “Have you- no, never mind.” He shook his head.

“Have we what?” Hornet's concerned was matched by Hollow and Ghost's staring, the latter's chin propped on Hollow's ankle.

“No, if you do not know, there is no point to it.” Mato gathered the staffs, still not meeting her nor the Vessels' gaze.

Ghost crawled from Hollow's lap, approaching Mato. They followed beside him as he walked for the storage closet, tapping his leg. When he looked down, their eyes met, and neither broke away from the gaze for several seconds, when Mato sighed and looked to the floor again.

“I know,” he muttered. That was all Hornet could catch clearly, though she did hear his tone lighten as he knelt to rub the top of Ghost's head.

The night was relatively calm. Hornet promised Mato another spar in the morning, when everyone was rested. But for the most part, they all gathered around the fire and conversed. Hornet shared what her siblings could not, though Mato did well at picking out the nuances of their body language. Ghost proudly showed off their writing, and while Hollow did not (they did not have it, it was rolled up and sat in Hornet's room), simply knowing they were both working on it earned them another round of hugs.

When yawns interrupted the conversation more often than not, Mato got up, bidding the siblings a good night. Hornet returned the sentiment, scrubbing her eyes. It had been a long day, she supposed, just getting everyone up here without anyone falling, getting stuck, or getting distracted by too many tiktiks.

Before she could get up to find somewhere to sleep, Ghost grabbed her hand, tugging. She pulled back, but they didn't let go, staring into her with those big eyes.

She sighed, letting the end of it hiss between her fangs. From his cot, she thought she heard Mato chuckle.

Hollow laid down, letting their siblings press in against their abdomen, even trying to tuck them in with their cloak. They served as a solid wall on one side, facing the door, the fire on another. When Hornet poked her head out they nudged her back under the cloak-turned-blanket, tapping between her eyes when she grumbled at them.

She huffed, and laid her head against them, letting the slow rock of their breaths lull her to sleep.


	49. We Shall Mourn No Longer

One of these days, Hornet would need to find an umbrella.

She refused to shiver her way through the City of Tears, nor let Hollow use their cloak to shield her like she was some loathesomely delicate noble. (Though Ghost had grabbed onto their ankle and held on tight while they walked, keeping out of the rain.) But she could not fly around on her needle when she needed to keep close to her siblings, which was how she made her time in the rain as short as possible otherwise.

Unfortunately, she had last seen her last umbrella in the White Palace, where it must currently be doing nobody any good.

But she marched on, for the Watcher's Spire. She had offered to let Hollow stay back, but they most resolutely joined her. Maybe making sure she didn't run off too fast this time. She deserved it, she hadn't been supervising closely enough, she had let matters slip the cracks.

They entered the blessedly dry space and Hornet slapped and shook as much water as she could off her cloak and horns. How nice it would be to dry off, or even go find a hot spring and enjoy some warm water. Maybe after, maybe once they made their way home. Yes, a nice stop at Deepnest's spring, maybe she could talk to some of the folks there, she hadn't been able to do a more serious check-in for some time now.

Speaking of check-ins... “Where is everyone?” she muttered, glancing around.

Her heart sank, dragging her guts down with it like they were all tied to a string. What if something happened to them? Did something come in and attack? There wasn't blood here, or anything of the sort. Did they all walk off, or go into hiding? Why?

...What if something new had come and possessed them? What would she do then?

She picked up her pace, frown growing deeper with each step. Ghost hopped off of Hollow's leg, the bigger Vessel unable to progress much farther anyways, and ran in front of her, peering around every which way.

Nothing, nothing... hallways empty of people, only tapestries and portraits of nobles long past. What had happened? Where was everyone? The nothingness pressed in, threatened to take down everything in one, final blow. What if this was it? The true end of Hallownest?

Her heart almost gave out with the sound of voices, a normal conversation. There were people. It wasn't just her and her siblings. She stopped, found herself reaching for the wall as she exhaled, and drew in a fresh breath.

It was fine. They were just in one of the other rooms. They were alive, she wasn't alone. It was fine. She could work with people if they were present.

Ghost poked in through the door before she could reach it, holding it open as the last of their cloak disappeared into the room.

“Anyways, I think we should- oh, hello. Hey. Thanks?” The sentries' voices quickly gave way to bemused confusion.

What had Ghost done this time?

She stepped inside to see them with their arms wrapped around one of the sentries, pulling them into a hug, like a child would hug a beloved relative they hadn't seen in forever. They let go, and ran to the next, repeating the process. As Hornet watched, some of the sentries just let them do it, some returned the hug, or patted them. One quietly asked them to not, held them at a distance, but let Ghost hold his hand for a moment instead.

“I...” Did she have to apologize for their behavior? They had been respectful of the one's wishes. Nobody seemed all too perturbed by it, just distracted from their work. She sighed, running her hand down her face. “What is the matter up for discussion?”

“The, ah, farms, Princess,” one said. She shifted, eyes falling to scattered blueprints and other materials sprawled on the table dominating the room. She never met Hornet's eyes, though she watched as Ghost ran out of the room, off to accomplish some nebulous task.

“Good.” She strode towards the table, finding a place between two of the sentries. She set her hands among the mess, gazing out across as many of them as she could, meeting their eye. When she spoke, she left no room for negotiation. “May I attend the discussion?”

The one who spoke nodded, the others following soon thereafter. She would not let them leave this meeting without some kind of plan.

“Right. So, Arik brought up that we need to see if the soil's any good for the seeds we've got and the plants we can propagate. Does anyone else have anything to add on to that?”

Nobody spoke. A few people shuffled through the documents, a hopeless attempt to bring some kind of order. Had nobody been sleeping? A few of them weren't even looking at the document pile, and a couple huddled as if they were about to sleep standing up.

“Are there plans on when and who will go to sample the soil, or what tests to conduct?” Hornet asked. Her hands curled, fingers digging against the stone tabletop. Surely she could get them to make some kind of plan? They all looked exhausted. What had been going on to tire them so?

“I...” The speaker turned to one of the other sentries, Arik, apparently. “What did you find on doing the actual tests?”

Arik nodded, head heavy, and sorted through the documents before him. The library had been, in large part, cleaned out over the years, but some things remained. One of these days, she would need to accost Quirrel and get him to either teach some of the others Archive shorthand and/or directly help translate the documents.

Unless the memories of Monomon stung too deeply. Then what would she do? Could she buffer it for very long, like how he was able to tolerate the visit with the mapmaker couple and Ghost? Long enough to make Monomon's information useful?

“I'll look through it,” Arik mumbled, head falling into his hands.

“Would someone be willing to help him?” Hornet looked around the table. Was there someone, anyone, who looked the slightest bit enthused about sitting there reading through agricultural texts, when their duties all their lives had been to train and defend the City?

Silence. Everyone did as she did, looking around and hoping somebody would speak up.

Until, at last, a voice squeaked from the far end of the table, “I'll help.”

The speaker nodded, relief weighing down on him. “Bic will help Arik, then.”

Progress. Progress of some sort! It was better than the stall they'd been sitting in. So long as the reading actually happened, and they could get back to the group about what to do with the soil samples, then fantastic. Hornet would take what she could get.

“Is there anyone capable of going out to the sample sites to collect them?” Hornet would need to know who was moving out to handle the bulk of the farm work, anyhow. She would rather not end up asking for people who had left the City.

A few raised their hands, nervous. She needed to ask the others around the Spire too, anyways; they could use more people going out, seeing the potential farmland. The more who saw it, perhaps the higher odds someone would decide to stay. With someone in place, it would be that much quicker to get the operation going. There would not be a harvest any time soon, that was certain, not unless they counted what they foraged instead. Which... she didn't know if they could ramp that up much. On one hand, there were the eggs waiting to hatch. She didn't know how many there were, or would be once the others laid, but after the infection she doubted anyone was terribly inclined to cull their clutches. Yet the world around them was recovering from its effects, too, and straining the ecosystem in such a precarious time would lead them back to ruin.

Perhaps she would have to accept that times would be lean for the survivors, at least until the farms were producing steady food, among other facets of infrastructure. Would they need carts or wagons, to haul the produce? Who would maintain the roads for such things? Agh, why did there have to be so many different aspects to a kingdom? The moment more bugs joined the equation, simple hunting and gathering like she had done for the equivalent of lifetimes failed her. All she could do was hope the White Lady had not left all matters of infrastructure to her husband, and Hornet was not prone to hope. Who else was there to go to? Hollow, who trained as a knight and had no need for the sorts of lessons she got, but haunted the Palace? Ghost, who had lived in the Wastes? The Mantis Lords, who would take her questions as a sign of Hallownest and Deepnest's weakness?

“Where would we start?” asked one of the ones with a raised hand.

Another turned to the table, humming while she searched. A few others stacked up the things she pushed aside, watching.

“Ah!” She produced a map and set it down with a determined thump. The light in her eyes faltered, but she worked her mouthparts and kept to it, scanning through the map. “There should be land in the Crossroads... Greenpath and the Queen's Gardens are obviously fertile land, but...”

Everyone nodded. Greenpath was Unn's land. They were free to visit, and use the land's resources respectfully, but trying to start up agriculture without permission of both the goddess and her followers was a recipe for disaster they couldn't afford. And did any of them even know the White Lady lived on in her gardens? While they could get permission from her, likely, it would be so much work to clear the thorns so they had enough space to set something up. The remaining traitor mantises were there, too, and they would definitely have to go through the Fungal Wastes to get there, considering the obstacles at the Fog Canyon entrance.

“Focus on the Crossroads for now. I shall see what can be done about the Queen's Gardens.” She could speak to the White Lady about the matter, and perhaps set Ghost on the mantises. She would organize some of the sentries, but Hallownest needed all the hands it could get, and mantises that the Lords did not care about any more were not worth the potential loss of life. Ghost, as strangely, stubbornly resilient as they were, would struggle far less with the task. She would assist where she could, but appealing to the queen was one place she outpaced her sibling.

Besides, while she was there, she could ask about the finer details of rulership. Perhaps now, with her throne effectively abdicated and her husband nowhere to be found, the White Lady would more freely surrender such details. It had been a long time since Hornet had any lessons in economics, or effective communication, or strategy, and bees worked very differently to Hallownest bugs.

As the meeting continued, the sentries got more and more invested. The discussion became more lively, everyone becoming more animated in whatever way they could, be it through voice or movement or expression alone. People agreed to meet later to get more in-depth about matters. They volunteered to take on tasks like sorting the seed stocks to find good candidates for the first round of planting, to potentially travel to the Archives, to research construction techniques so they could get barns and farmhouses and the like established. A couple got excited about the potential for crawlid husbandry.

To each their own.

The meeting ended, eventually. Some stayed in the room, among the documents, chattering to themselves and each other. A few, shy still, dismissed themselves to go elsewhere. Others left in clumps, discussing whatever topics they had been on when the meeting started to dissolve into a collection of smaller sub-meetings. Throughout the Spire, she heard similar sounds, people talking to each other, voices rising and falling as they negotiated their places in conversations.

She darted through clusters of people, some of them calling out greetings, or thanks. What for, she wasn't sure, she was simply doing her job, but she was not about to tell them no. She needed to find Ghost. Provided they were still around here somewhere. Considering everything, that was not a guarantee, though she thought they had learned enough to not go running off when they had come somewhere with someone.

Thankfully, either they had indeed learned or were too preoccupied to have gotten away before she found them sitting high in the Spire, staring out the window, tapping on it.

She approached, and they turned, opening their arms wide. She scrubbed the top of their head like she had seen Mato do and looked down, down, at what had their attention.

Hollow stood far below, mask tilted back, rain forming rivers down their face. Never before had she seen her sibling look so small; it was hard enough to find perches where she stood taller than them back in the Palace, let alone anything this high up.

She waved to them, and couldn't help a smile when they raised an arm and waved back.

“Let's go, they're bound to be soaking wet,” she told Ghost, tapping their back.

Obediently, they turned and followed beside her, having to take two steps for every one of hers. Why did they keep to such a small form? Was it just a matter of being used to it? How would they take being Hollow's height, or even hers?

Thinking of that, of the creature she had seen, of their presence in her dreams before Hollow stole their mask and ran to the Abyss with that... “Ghost,” she started.

They looked to her, Void wavering lazily around their eye sockets.

She stared into them, seeking out any sign of the eight glowing eyes, of the curving horns, the four arms. But it was Ghost, all the way through. “Did you do something to them?” she asked, keeping her voice down. She didn't need the people to hear anything about something being done to them, especially something that seemed to be affecting their minds. For the better right now, but something to keep an eye on for sure.

For better or worse, Ghost nodded, and it was like Hornet swallowed ice. She'd had enough of gods messing with people.

“What was it?” It came out more of a hiss, her eyes narrowing.

They paused, looked to the floor for a moment, contemplative.

And then they looked up at her again, their hand tapping their chest.

She frowned. She could interrogate them more later, when she had time and they had parchment to spare. If they were doing something, would it be sustainable? Would it cause the exact sort of problems that had put them in this position in the first place? Hallownest couldn't handle a second infection.

Ghost watched everyone they passed, content to simply observe for now. Perhaps they had run out of the energy to be social with everyone. Hornet certainly had; nothing sounded better than getting a chance to dive into the quieter parts of Hallownest and go hunting, perhaps check the traps she had set up. 

The moment they stepped out of the Spire, though, they darted off, small splashes marking their footsteps as they ran for their sibling. Hollow, who had been waiting ever so patiently under an awning, bent over to press their mask against Ghost's.

Ghost tugged on their hand after the greeting, stepping back to let Hollow stand. The taller Vessel stayed bent over so Ghost could hold them, glancing up to nod at Hornet while she puzzled over how they kept their balance, considering how heavy their horns were.

The three emerged from under the awning to be immediately pelted with rain. Hornet pulled her cloak tighter around her neck; she definitely needed an umbrella. And she needed to figure something out for Hollow, especially if they were going to spend their time standing outside most of the buildings. Where would they fit here? The library? A couple of the museums and galleries?

Ghost let go of Hollow's hand and ran forward, springing into the air. Their cloak, weighed down by rain, stuck to them rather than flying out, even as they came down-

Directly into a puddle.

They splashed water everywhere, jumping around like an overexcited hopper with some new and interesting prey. Hornet shielded her face on instinct, only for the water droplets to hit her legs, barely differentiable compared to the rain.

Ghost hopped to another puddle, kicking that one around, too. They cared not for getting wet, the droplets dripping down their mask and limbs and dampening their cloak. They hopped again, spinning around midair to land facing Hollow and Hornet, arms and legs spread in a sturdy pose of challenge.

Hornet held back a snort. Was she being challenged to puddle jumping?

Before she could retort, do anything dignified, Hollow lumbered past until they loomed before Ghost, the two Vessels staring at each other. Rain fell all around them, preventing it from being too silent. The only other people Hornet saw were flying sentries in the distance, likely uninterested in the Vessels wandering around, now that they were a known quantity.

At last, Hollow picked up a foot and stamped in a puddle.

Ghost jumped more, either delighted or trying to outdo Hollow's splash.

Hornet followed her siblings as they wound their way back through the City, smiling. They jumped from puddle to puddle, kicking water at each other, as if the rain were a toy rather than the result of a structural failure.

She recalled an early trip to the City. It had been her and her father, the two going to meet with Lurien before the three of them went out to lunch. (Later, she'd heard rumor around the Palace that Herrah had threatened the Pale King into actually acting as a father; either he did it unsupervised or she was going to set up something father-daughter and he was going to like it or else.) The Pale King had let her wander within a small radius around him, and she would run around and splash in every puddle she saw. Which was lots of puddles, if the current state of the place implied anything.

By the time they got to lunch, Hornet had practically invalidated the umbrella her father carried and she had to try not to nip him to see if that got him to acquiesce to her requests for him to play with her. It hadn't worked on anyone else and often got her in trouble, after all.

Like a fact, something she had read long ago, she remembered some vague impression of a conversation between Lurien and the Pale King, while she doodled on some parchment Lurien had brought for her to keep busy with. Lurien had asked something about whether the Pale King needed to leave, something about the noise and the people. The Pale King muttered whatever his response was, something about the newness of it and an outing in general.

On impulse, she ran, letting her cloak cling to her. It slapped her arms as she jumped, again when she landed in a puddle. A giggle escaped her; the people were all right. They were regaining their selves, and though she'd watch to ensure Ghost didn't go too far with anything, for now they had made progress. She'd built up Deepnest's food stores enough, between hunting and trapping, along with the others' efforts as they grew stronger, that she could take her time with something. Something like splashing in some puddles as she walked.

Hollow and Ghost stopped to stare at her.

Hollow kicked some water onto her.

She kicked back, a few drops hitting their ankles and nothing more.

Ghost jumped, adding a marginal amount of water to their siblings' shins. They leaped ahead for the next puddle, splashing a few times before moving on again.

Hornet and Hollow chased them, running through the rain.


	50. I've Come Home

Why were they here?

Hornet stared out at the ruins. Chunks of walls, floors, support beams, left behind like somebody had carved into the place and forgotten to take the rest. Corpses huddled around the cavern, just as pale and dusty as the rest of it. She had known the retainers had not gone far, not many of them, anyways. 

A few constructs laid scattered about, too. The one the three of them stood before sat, crumpled, by the entrance. Guarding its post to the last, just as their father had designed. There was a Void construct that was truly empty, but too weak, too unable to adapt without constant orders, to throw at a raging goddess.

They had scared her, as a child. They were big, and clanked everywhere, but not in a personable, friendly way like the Great Knights. They stomped like they didn't care if she got underfoot. Which, actually, she didn't know if they would. She'd always given them a wide berth, unless they were standing still and she felt brave enough to hiss at them.

And here one was, broken and sad. She had seen broken kingsmoulds before, of course, when she joined the Pale King in his workshop. He would bring them in for repairs, and sometimes had some new prototype he was working on. Yet if they were in the workshop, they were usually in some dismantled state, not intact but in poor shape, battered and grungy. It almost didn't look like something of the Palace, only its metallic body and the spires on its helm indicating its origin. Its Void leaked everywhere, lashing it to the floor.

Hollow stared at it, too. What did they think of it? Did they also see how dismal it was, how far out of repair it had gotten? How did they take this all, this visceral reminder of how the Pale King had not only disappeared, but he took their home with him? What had Ghost been thinking, bringing Hollow here? Surely this would be too much. They had struggled so much with the most basic of things, they were not in a state to face such a challenge to their mental health.

But, honestly, was she?

She remembered hearing the Palace was gone. She'd run to it to see and hadn't even been able to set foot on the bridge before she broke down, screaming through her sobs. How dare he? How dare he take another home away? How dare he leave behind the people he'd sworn he cared for? How dare he abandon her, as if he hadn't already taken her mother away?

She had never gone back. She couldn't bear to look at it. All these ruins. She would rather sit by his old corpse when the mood struck her, kick it once or twice, curse it for what it became. How dare he leave his blood in her veins? How dare he leave her to be a Void-tainted half-monster? How dare her mother let him sire her? Didn't she know? Didn't she know the monster he was? And he didn't even need the gargantuan form, mandibles that could shear through rock, and godly powers to do it.

She kept Hallownest safe for the people. They didn't deserve this. They didn't know any better. She had been chased from home to home, Deepnest to Palace to Hive to nowhere in particular, but this was the only home they had ever known. She would keep that for them, so they didn't know what it felt like to lose it.

She would keep it safe for her mother, who sacrificed everything for it.

That her father remained had been incidental, until he wasn't there any more.

She crossed her arms under her cloak, tight enough they pressed into her sides, preventing her from breathing too deep. Huddled like that, she reached for her winglets, stroking them between a finger and thumb. They were hers, she had grown them herself, but at the same time they were so viscerally his.

Couldn't he have just left her alone to be a spider?

She was about to step away, to go comfort Hollow if they needed it, at least stand by them so they had someone there, when Ghost pressed something into her hand. A handle? Yes, a handle, it almost felt like a nail's grip, but it didn't have a nail's weight distribution to it.

She took it, and looked the thing over. She had seen them swinging it around, it was the thing that created an ethereal blade. They had struck her with it a couple times, and she had flinched the first time, but when nothing happened, not even a woundless draining of Soul, she came to ignore it.

What were they giving it to her for?

They pointed at the kingsmould, waving insistently. That? They wanted her to strike that? A dead kingsmould?

(Some childish form of her cringed at the idea, whispering that maybe it would come to life and attack her.)

She drew the thing, holding it like a weapon. A deep breath, and she focused on it, how it felt in her hand, the intricate design of the handle, the faint hint of some sort of magic or something thrumming in its core.

She swung.

The world went white.

It did not fade. It didn't fade, she was blind, she had-

No.

The world sharpened. She was laying face-down on the bridge. How embarrassing. Ugh. What had Ghost done? Were they and Hollow standing behind her, laughing to themselves? She would stab them for this. Maybe bite them. She didn't know how Vessels reacted to spider venom, but she swore today she would find out.

Groggy, she pushed herself to her feet. How hard had she fallen? Nothing hurt, which was strange. She would have expected smacking her face into the bridge to be, well, painful. Had she hit her head harder than expected? Surely Hollow would have caught her.

Except, no, she was on the other side of the bridge.

Her siblings were nowhere to be found.

And the White Palace, in all its glory, stood before her.

She could not help but gape? Was this a dream? This had to be a dream. Weird, glittering motes floated about, and the Ancient Basin held no such things. They didn't follow the movements of her eyes, either, so it wasn't a vision problem, she bet.

What was this? Why was she here?

Had she died?

A whimper broke through her. She couldn't be dead. She needed to go home, to Hallownest, to Deepnest, to her siblings.

She dug her fingers into her elbow joint, grimacing. No, she hurt. Surely she would not hurt if she was dead.

So she had to keep going.

Every step on the bridge felt distant, like someone else was taking it. Yet it was a path she had walked so many times in her life that it had become unremarkable. She couldn't even remember a time when the Palace had been more than some intrigue, a literally bright change in her daily routine. Yet there were far more bugs who would never see the Palace, or maybe only a few times in their life.

A dead kingsmould lay sprawled by the entrance. Was it the same one? This one looked like it had fallen in battle, rather than collapsed from disrepair. What had happened to it? Little Ghost?

She frowned. She bet it was Little Ghost.

She still skirted around it, eyeing its scythes. She had not often seen the kingsmoulds in action, but sometimes the Great Knights stole one (or the Pale King spared one, she wasn't sure) to train with, and when they hit the Knights, the kingsmoulds left nasty gouges.

It did not judder to life, or move at all, despite what her worries told her would happen. It let her slip inside, as if she-

She did belong. Technically. She was the king's child. She had lived here.

No, no, she hadn't. She didn't live in the Palace she stepped inside.

It looked similar. It had all the same cold architecture wrapped in silvered leaves. The muffled, unintelligible sounds of conversation echoed in the same way. But she did not recognize the halls, the doors jutting this way and that. The White Palace did not have random platforms strewn about, floating in the air. It did not have massive chunks torn away and exposed to open air, a drop that faded into pure black far below, far enough that her stomach churned peering over the gilded, torn edge of the nearest gap.

This was not the White Palace. This was... this was some twisted abomination, pretending to be her second home. And it wasn't even pretending well, like whoever planned it gave up halfway through and let it fall apart, showing the dangers hidden within.

But there was nowhere else to go, so she jumped.

The air whistled past her. Something flew past, and she threw her needle before her eyes fully comprehended what had crossed them.

It was for the best, she figured as she pulled herself onto the platform she had buried her needle in. She pulled her needle free and scanned the horizon.

Up above her was what appeared to be another entrance into the Palace. There was a path up to it.

The issue was the spines coating the platforms, and the buzzsaws darting between them.

There was no way the buzzsaws could have been there, suspended in midair with nothing to serve as a support. This had to be a dream or something, that nail had done something to her more than the kingsmould. But she knew she could feel pain in this land, and she was not interested in feeling a buzzsaw digging into her carapace.

She watched them, darting from platform to platform. They were not that difficult to reach with her needle swings, not yet.

Once she got closer, though, the challenge rose. The whine of buzzsaws dug into her head. It became hard to watch them as they ran back and forth, in precise yet contradictory rhythms, a dozen identical objects moving in different directions in different speeds all at once.

As soon as she could she jumped past one, clearing its path. Barely, just barely, with it screaming up behind her, hesitating for a moment before falling back to start the cycle anew.

She hesitated, too, trying to sort out the next sequence. If she used her needle to bounce off the spikes entangling the next platform, could she change direction and get to the next safe platform before another buzzsaw swung through her arc? Her eyes narrowed, and she shielded them, trying to block out all the extraneous input, all the monochrome, painfully bring surroundings, the glittery motes, the other saws, the spikes extending and retracting.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Up and over the next buzzsaw. Needle clanged against spike, and she jumped, the momentum powering her into the air. Buzzsaw drew close, so close, almost bit her cloak, drew her in, but she landed, cloak hem and life intact.

Another round, dropping below and swinging up onto platforms that were impossible to reach from the others' tops. Her silk arced gracefully, almost too much so. Too wide and she hit a saw. Too narrow and if her needle pulled from the ground she wouldn't have any choice but to follow it into oblivion.

Foot touched platform, and she was off. One, another, a third after a close brush with retracting spikes.

A wingsmould fluttered in the middle of the airspace. She knocked it to the side, scrambled up one wall, leaping to the other side whenever a saw spun in her way. A saw came screaming at her and she pressed into the wall, not even breathing as it ripped past once, then again on the way back up.

Up to the top of the wall. She recovered her breath, sought the next step.

Flew across a field of spines, grabbed a spike as it jolted out. Its shaft bit her hands but she swung upwards anyways in the moment she had before it retracted. Threw her needle, let it carry her until she pulled it sharply and fell onto the next platform.

She climbed and climbed, spiraling upwards. She hardly registered the switch before she hit it, a filigree door sliding open.

The hallways broke apart in the space she stepped into, too, forming a conglomeration of the common areas around the Palace. There was a bit of a meeting hall here, some of the ballroom there. Voices murmured, saying nothing intelligible. And, of course, despite the shattered architecture, it was all immaculate. Not a thorn out of place.

Looking down, Hornet found herself staring at clusters of retainers, as if they weren't reduced to nothing but curled corpses. Or... were they all retainers? She thought she spotted a few elements of their outfits that more of belonged to the visiting nobles.

She jumped down, onto the nearest jetty. The retainers on it stopped their conversation and bowed, the others continuing on as if nothing had happened.

She nodded to them, too unnerved to respond. Ought she to strike them with her needle, see if they were just a figment of a dream?

Before she could draw her needle, her hand found the hilt of the thing Ghost had given her, the thing that had gotten her here in the first place.

She drew it, readied it. The retainers did not react.

She swung.

It was as if they whispered directly into her mind. _My King... All for us..._

Her nerves went weak and she stowed the device again. Had she listened directly to their thoughts? Why did they sound so hazy, so piecemeal? What was happening here?

But she could not bring herself to speak to these- these fragments.

She jumped away, landing at an elevator. She stepped onto it, taking a moment to frown at the white glow before looking for a switch-

“Ah!” It shot upwards, threatening her balance. Her stomach lurched as she regained her footing, the potential of a fall down the shaft buzzing in her mind.

It slowed, bringing her to another amalgamation room, with more of the retainers and a gaping hallway.

She could not have run for the empty hall fast enough, away from the mutters of conversation and the empty eyes. The whine of buzzsaws, the shining hush of spears stabbing air, was preferable to whatever was going on in the amalgamation.

Running, jumping, swinging through the tangled web of hazards and machinery distracted her from the matter, anyways. All was getting to the next platform. Avoiding saws, refusing to let the thorns more than graze her ankles. Lashing her wounds with silk when the cuts piled up. Watching, waiting, instinct and rational thought balancing each other to keep her from jumping directly into a spinning saw. Slumping on the platforms to catch her breath, huddling away in the nooks and corners she found to get a break from the machines or the people talking.

Her limbs ached, the pain spreading to her torso as her exertion drew in more and more of her muscles, wearing out one by one. She pulled strips of jerky from her cloak, shredded it, ate it in small tangles. Not too much, though. She wasn't sure how to get out yet, and she would rather not immediately resort to eating the retainers, as thoughtless as they seemed. She did not trust them.

When she regained her strength, she stepped on the next elevator and let it ascend.

Upon reaching the next floor, all she could do was sigh.

A wall of sharpness blocked the space. Buzzsaws pulsed in and out, providing momentary openings, all buried in thorns.

How was she supposed to do this? How did she approach something like this? Who designed this, anyways, and did this to what had once been her home? Was this some sort of sick joke?

She stepped back, evaluating.

Her window was small. But if she got it right, she could get in over one of the upper sawblades...

She took her spare spool and wound her hands and feet in silk. It would be better than nothing.

Her limbs padded, she approached the wall, grasped the thorns, and climbed.

They got through, sometimes, digging into her flesh and scraping her carapace. She hissed, but kept going. She had to keep going. Something would be up there, beyond that sawblade, beyond this wall. Some kind of purpose for all this. She just had to get to it.

Her hands shook as she readied her needle. There was just enough room for her to clear the saw, but her body screamed at the effort. Hallownest was not made like this. It was not so actively hostile. Even Deepnest was simple to navigate compared to this.

She threw the needle. Her thread ran, went taut, and she clung to it, tensing as the sawblade rushed towards her.

The whine filled her head, filled everything around her, and it faded. Her needle struck something, something solid.

She cleared the wall of thorns, dropping into a tumble as she landed. She rolled, letting the world come to a halt before righting herself.

A doorway. A familiar doorway. She frowned, and pulled her needle to her, returning it to its place on her back. This was her room. Why was this her room?

She pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

Well, it was clean. Strangely so. And orderly. When she lived there, she was often in and out, and what things she did bring out she did not give herself time to pack away. Usually, the cleaning staff left her things wherever she put them, unless the location was best described as “egregiously wrong.”

But this? It was her same old bed, the sheets tucked neatly, the pillows plump and waiting. It even had a favorite soft blanket, knit thick and plush, on it. She reached out, sunk her hand into the fabric, letting her fingers curl in the loops.

Her dresser sat at the bed's foot, polished to a sheen. A small jar sat there, soil lining the bottom, some of Deepnest's glowing mushrooms sitting within. Strange, she had thought the mushrooms died. The White Lady had tried to show her how to care for them, after her mother began to Dream, but she did not have her stepmother's skill with living things. Opening the drawers, she found it full of cloaks in an array of colors, most tending towards blues and reds. A few pale robes broke through, standing out just like she had as a small, colorful thing in the White Palace.

She shut the drawers and turned to the rest of the room.

It had her desk and chair, and the armchair she used to curl up and sleep in when she didn't feel like sleeping in her bed proper. A few looms sat, stacked on her desk, threaded with pieces ranging from the basic things she practiced on as a child to what looked like an attempt at a tapestry. Her umbrella, dry as could be, waited in its basket for her next City venture. A depowered wingmould sat on the desk's back corner, a perfectly organized toolkit waiting beside it.

And, of course, the only sign of life, the only sign that maybe someone could live here, was a carefully positioned cloak draped over the back of the chair.

It was clean. It was tidy. It was far too neat and organized, and it had been waiting for her.

She sat down on her bed, feeling it sink under her. It was as if she had come after a long stay back home in Deepnest, when the staff had gotten a chance to thoroughly clean the room and get it ready for her. She didn't know why they did it; it never made it feel more like home. It just felt all the more temporary, everything she did getting smoothed out and undone.

She took her needle off her back, resting it at the foot of the bed. Reaching back, she rubbed between her wings, face tightening as the muscles eased from cramps.

What else was here? She scanned the room again, pausing at a door that sat squarely in the wall in front of the armchair. That... that had not been there. That was not part of her old room.

She replaced her needle and stood, eyes narrowing more with every step. What was this doing here? Had it been here the entire time, actually, and she had not noticed it? Did it just appear?

She opened it. A breeze brushed by her, bringing the rustle of plant life swaying. Railing drew upwards. A balcony.

Not just a balcony.

“Father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 See y'all next week!


	51. Bough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psst, hey y'all! I posted this yesterday on my tumblr @vivifrage, so if you're there you might have seen this already, but I had a "must do things" mood yesterday and part of that involved making [a playlist for these next few chapters.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLsHqzam7dXAdgYZcqCzm7P3EnM3wCjPSW) You can check it out at that link.

Black eyes, piercing, curved into sideways teardrops so much like her own, bore into her. She did likewise, with a gaze sharpened by years of survival, of defending what little she had left.

It was him. There was no way it could not be him. The tall crown, the square jaw, the flowing robe hiding most of him away, the hints of rainbow gossamer blooming from between his shoulders, it was all how she remembered.

But he did not glow.

In fact, he looked rather plain, with no kingslight, his bright white faded and almost muddied.

Her heart welled in her throat, tears doing the same in her eyes, both stinging and weighing on her. How could he? How could he come back? Her hands bunched into fists, fingertips digging into her palms.

“Hornet,” he said, in that voice that seemed too deep for his frame, half heard aloud, half a thought shared directly with the listener. She knew that tone, knew it from when he read instructions, or reports.

She nodded to him, pressing her fists against herself as if this were a usual, distantly formal occasion. “Pale King.”

He had left. He had left before even she knew her name, though not by long. Vespa had kept it to herself, Hornet knew.

“How long have you known?” she croaked. How dare her voice betray her now, at a time like this? Anger pooled, warming her aching limbs, bringing some sense of steadiness, something to focus on.

“Since the Sealing.” His gaze lingered on her, and perhaps one of his mandibles worked aimlessly, but he turned to face out to the great expanse of foliage and nothing, and gestured for her to stand beside him.

Each step felt mechanical, moreso than the buzzsaws' eternal paths. The railing grew closer, the edge nearer, the distance all the more unfathomable.

What did she say to him? She knew she had imagined this time and time again during the stasis, a chance to confront her father, to force him to listen to all the grievances that piled up, one after another. Now here he was, as alive as she – so perhaps she, too, was dead. But she could not bring herself to worry over that.

Nor could she remember all the things she had said. All the starts to those angry outbursts, sentences that in her mind she perfectly crafted to tear him down, until he was no god any more, inside or out. Where had she started? His disappearance? The loss of her sibling – and now their injuries, the way they had tottered and fumbled and feared, oh so strongly feared, because all their life had been a meaningless search for his approval? Her mother, the deal he made with her, the cruelty of bringing a child into a dying world? His isolation, how he failed to reconcile with the White Lady?

Would she cry, like she sometimes imagined she would, the power of her hurt awakening some cobbed over paternal instincts? If so, would she accept him, let him make up for all the time lost, or reject him, and take back what she had lost to him?

She gripped the railing, squeezing and releasing it. The breeze whispered its nonsense again. What was there to say, truly?

Everything.

And nothing, too.

When she spoke, it was like her tongue and chelicerae and fangs were not her own. It was as if somebody else had taken her body and compelled her to say the most trivial, least cutting thing she could possibly think of.

“I grew wings.”

In the corner of her eye she sees him look up, and move towards her. She felt him take the hem of her cloak and ease it up onto her shoulders, pressing it there until she held it out of the way. She heard his appraising hum.

His fingertips brushed her wings and she stiffened, flicking them away. It had not hurt, no, and she eased up at that thought. But she hadn't been expecting it.

At the same time, she supposed it was no different than when he checked over her wounds. A clinical touch, from the only person besides her sibling who knew how to handle the blood she spilled.

This time, when he touched her wings, drawing up to the buds, examining their edges, she did not pull away. She stood as still as she could, hardly even breathing. She half expected him to begin muttering about how she needed to be careful, and not get herself in trouble like this.

He let them go and backed away, his own wings rustling as he tucked them against his back.

“So you are.”

She turned to him, the beginning of the stunned fog beginning to lift from her mind. Her cloak fell from her shoulders, draping around her, hardly any different than the last time she had seen him. But she had not worn a hunter's cloak then. She had not needed to.

But... _are?_

She did feel some modicum of relief. She wouldn't be stuck with useless winglets forever. At the same time, how many more molts would it take for them to do anything? What if they didn't grow in right, like they had already tried?

“They're pointless,” she said, the words so heavy she could hardly push them from her mouth.

“For now, as all things are at some point.” He returned to his place, hands clasped behind his back, under his robe, beneath his wings. His head tilted back, his eyes focused solely on the serenity before him. He let the quiet weigh on the two of them, so his whisper seemed all the louder when he spoke again. “One day, though, you shall soar.”

She scoffed. Soar? Here? Hallownest was all underground, unless she launched herself off of the Crystal Peak or Howling Cliffs, both of which would likely see her smacked into a rock.

What would it feel like to fly, though? Would it be very different from using her needle and thread?

Imagine having a space like this, all this empty air, to fly in. Yet it was not for her, this was not her home, this place of saws and artificial everything.

She let the quiet reign again, staring out, tapping her fingers against her jaw. The air smelled of nothing. The breeze was marginally cool, but when it did not blow the air was not any particular temperature or humidity. She felt she would never be cold here, nor warm. Not physically. Emotionally was another matter.

The Pale King sighed. She glanced at him, gaze lingering on his dulled form, the tiredness encircling his eyes. How his wings laid limp, not tight and orderly.

“I have made mistakes.”

Her heart skipped in her throat. _Yes!_ she wanted to scream, _Yes you have! Look at the misery all around you, just as much your spawn as myself or my siblings._ How had it taken him this long to realize that? How could he not have admitted it before? Why couldn't he have apologized instead of disappearing and leaving her orphaned again?

But nothing came from her mouth. It all piled up, too much for her to express in words.

Which let the Pale King continue unimpeded. “If you are concerned, you are not dead, though this realm can possess the imprints of a soul.” He waved at the foliage, the balcony. “It is the realm of dreams. The act of removing the White Palace to it – a safety measure, done in desperation – had the side effect of shattering my consciousness. What you see is an amalgam of these fractured pieces, reconstructed with your mind as a guide. This is yours alone.”

He was stalling. As if one sentence, acknowledging he did wrong, made up for the years and years of it all. It wouldn't bring her mother back. It wouldn't heal her sibling. It wouldn't revive Hallownest.

Her hands shook, rage like fire coursing through her veins. It was not that simple. It was not one sentence that wasn't even an apology. It certainly was not that un-apology and then a heartless, tired blurb about what realm she was in. Tears stung. Was that all he thought she was worth?

“I understand you never cared,” she hissed, the words more venomous than anything her fangs could inject. “But must you display this fact so callously?”

A sharp intake of breath, like he was about to speak. He held it, and she found herself counting the moments until she heard a quiet, almost inaudible exhale. It was a sound of defeat. She had outplayed him, driven him into a corner. What could he ever do to evade this?

He would find a way. Gods were not apologetic beings. His admittance was a fluke. A simple tool to try and placate her. She would not fall for it. She would turn his weapons on him until she flayed him to pieces.

He did not meet her eyes, instead scanning the floor. It would hold no answers for him. If her mind is what this place drew upon to reconstruct him, then she willed it. He would have no more distractions. No way of dismissing her.

“No.”

She would have dismissed the word as a figment of her imagination, if it had not been too loud for her mind alone.

“No. You do not need to. Yet now that we have established the truth as precedent, let us continue with it. I shall hold no facade for you, as you do for me.” The retort burned as it left her mouth. It hung in the air, ready to sting and scald.

“No.” He took another slow breath. “No, I cared.”

It struck worse than his callousness. All this time... All this time, and this is what he did when he felt some small affection for something? Discarded them?

Her fingers pressed against the railing, pressure radiating through her carapace. “Did I not just say we ought to focus on the truth? There is no point to your deceptions-”

“ _Hornet.”_ The command, a tone she had not heard since she was small and prone to being bothersome, stilled her long enough for the Pale King to contemplate his next words. “I am not lying to you.”

She would not have wanted to stop herself if she could. She glared until her face hurt, gripping the railing until the pain turned bright. “Have you forgotten your own actions, Pale King? What about- about _anything_ could possibly indicate you ever cared? If you will not admit it to me, admit it to yourself. Not once, not _once_ , did anything matter to you outside yourself.”

The hidden Palace. The entire fight with the Old Light. Siring the Vessels. Siring her. He could not deny it. She would get it through to him, no matter how he resisted. She could not stand it, could not take any more living with his decisions without seeing him do anything about it, even mourn his losses. She had been angry enough with the White Lady, for stepping back when Hallownest most needed some sort of stability.

“Listen to me-”

“There is nothing to listen to.” She stepped towards him, relishing in how his wings twitched, halfway ready to escape. “I have experienced enough at your hands. We all have. Look at you. Look at everything.” Her arm swooped towards the expanse before them. “How many of my siblings did you kill? Did it matter to them whether you cared when they fell and their masks cracked? Did you see all the little spirits at the bottom, staring up at you? Did you let them know you cared? Look at all the good that did them. Now one's an eternal child and I've been tending to the other's wounds. Do you know how long I spent wondering if they would simply die? Or whether they would do anything besides lie there?”

He closed his eyes. “Hornet-”

She shook her head, hard lashes of movement. “No. I shall not let you settle the issue with prattle. What you have done deserves far more than what I say. What of my mother? Why was that all right with you, letting a child be a bargaining chip? A life for a life? Was I nothing to you?”

He said nothing. His only defense was to hold his face in one hand, fingertips against his mask.

It was proof enough for her. “No. I was nothing. What is the life of one child, when you have already sacrificed thousands more? I was some piece of refuse my mother subjected your Palace to, that was it. And I did not know.” Her voice cracked, but she could not stop, even to collect herself. “I did not know what could possibly have made you so heartless. I was only a child. I was _your_ _daughter._ Does that mean nothing to you, Wyrm?”

She thought she caught his shoulders shudder, his head rest heavier in his hand. But perhaps it was a trick of the light. Nothing more than an illusion.

His fingers curled, one of the few signs of anger, of emotion at all, that she had learned he gave. “I did not want you to learn-” He paused for a breath, letting it sink in, like he did in his speeches. “That someone who loved you could hurt you like that.”

Her words died. She had nothing for him. She had already learned what love was supposed to be, with her mother, sibling, with Midwife. She had grown up watching her peers seek out their parents' affection, and attention, and lavishing in the reception of it.

(So, too, had she seen those who approached their parents with fear in their eyes. She did not seek their company, certain they would never find kinship with a princess and a family torn and bound by magic and gods' wars.)

Through her heartbreak, she could not see the pain she would have sustained, had he (openly?) cared for her, and she knew it. She had not lost much, when it came to her relationship with him. She did not know what it would be like if he acted like her father, not just her sire.

...Was the workshop here? She tried to imagine it, those days working beside him, where both found the harmony to build and innovate in the same space, if not always together. Miraculously, they had survived the Sealing, but they had become more of lessons and silent, mutual existence broken only by the sounds of tools.

She sought the feeling from those days before, and found it a weak, straggling thing, in no better state than Hollow had been when they emerged from the Black Egg. Perhaps she ought to quash it, rid herself of this complication.

But she could not bring herself to. There had been a time before Hallownest's fall. There was some part of her that had not been entirely repurposed for survival and a life of violence. There had, once, been a little spider girl who learned to weave from her mother and learned to build from her father, and though she had grown, Hornet was still Hornet.

Even if, now, whenever she looked at her father, she could only think of Herrah's sleeping form.

When the Pale King spoke, there was a weight to the words. Not emotion, certainly. Not with how dead his tone was, every word nothing more than the syllables constructing it. So perfectly, thoroughly drained of feeling. Hollow, even. “It is ironic.”

Ironic? _Ironic?_ What possessed him to say that? “I don't care for your ideas of irony. We are not discussing _irony_ , we are discussing _you._ ”

He may as well have not heard her, was it not for the slightest rise in his volume. “Wyrm males only take their sons, not their daughters. The daughters stay with their mothers until they are grown, find territory of their own, and then they mourn the sons stolen from them in turn. That early life is but a small luxury surrounded by loss, and yet I did not afford that to you, nor your mother.”

He was making it up. He had to be making this up. He was stalling again, and Hornet would not stand for it, this tragedy manufactured to cut into her. He had never-

He had spoken of a mother, once.

But never of this. Not once did he imply that her life was, in some sick way, his _normal_. He had let her exist with these wounds in her soul, cut her open again and again when she lost her mother, her sibling, learned of her other siblings, had to face them when she stumbled across them, when he abandoned her as well. If he spoke to her of it, it was in terms of sacrifice, and duty, and the tragedies we must bear.

“No,” she said, “You didn't. Do not be seeking forgiveness for it.”

“I am not asking for it.” One of his hands came to rest on the railing, on the bar connecting the spiny posts. Hornet could have reached out and grabbed it, pulled him to her and demanded straightforward answers face-to-face, and let her interrogation fade away into the void beyond. But she did not, and so he spoke.

“My sire, your-” He hesitated. Why? “Your grandfather died before I hatched. Most sons are taken from their mothers well before they can understand the stories their mothers tell, let alone remember them.”

His breaths had gone almost invisible again. When had he begun intaking breaths so sharply, yet with such subtlety she only noticed in its absence? “It was not an easy adjustment, when the other males did find me. They could not agree on who would raise me, chasing me from their territory after a time. The way they spoke of mortals, of other Higher Beings and gods, of the dames- Hornet, no matter what trouble you deign to get into, _please_ stay away from male wyrms. A hybrid like you would be a blasphemy upon their blood.”

Before she could speak, tell him she was not interested in hearing his sob story, his pathetic attempt to relate to her after all he had done, he continued, “But that is a matter neither of us are in a position to combat. The matter is, you were stolen. I was stolen. As was your grandfather, your great-grandfather... Until the beginning of days. Parents lost their children.”

His head tilted up, uncovering an eye. And, as he did, he stared right into her, as if he knew how to get through her until he beheld her soul. Staring back, trying to match his intensity, Hornet almost missed his hand sliding a fraction towards her.

“I do not ask you for forgiveness. I ask you to break the cycle. As endlessly painful as it is to be unable to defend my people, my territory... take care of them. Create a better world than I did.”

She looked down, away from his eyes. Oh. She had un-tensed, listening to him, and her hand had slid down the railing. As had his, until they were a finger-length from touching. She could have reached out to him.

He could have reached out to her.

She slid her hand back, tucking it against her thorax. “Perhaps it would be easier to do so if I had learned much about leading a kingdom.”

He huffed, softly. “It did not help that your lessons were stopped so young. But... there are copies of notes I have taken on the matter, in the Archive. Provided nobody has disturbed it.”

She shook her head. The Archive had been relatively well preserved, save for the abundance of escaped lumaflies. Which, most likely, was why they were so well preserved. That, the acid everywhere, and Monomon's unreadable script. She would need Quirrel's assistance, or maybe that of Cornifer and Iselda now that they had all translated Monomon's writing together. Bitter, she said, “Did you foresee it? Me not completing my lessons?”

“No. Not until it was too late.”

A particularly strong breeze brought one of the boughs closer and she tangled her fingers in it, focusing on the joint of leaves and branch, the bark so soft it was easy to forget how tough it had to be, part of the very structure of the Palace.

She wanted to call him on it, the failures of his foresight. She had thought it infallible for a time, listening to all the adults say oh yes, this thing came true, and our king spoke of it, at least we are prepared. That, and his skill at countering her, finding her when he needed to, pulling her away from things about to break and send parts flying, and ensuring she got ready to go home right in time for her mother to arrive. She learned better, though, with doubts cast upon the Sealing, the return of the infection, an older perspective on her sibling's behavior. She did not know how it functioned. She would not say worked, for it had failed at such a key time. But he had it, she knew, and sometimes wondered if he had passed that on, when she showed up in the nick of time, when she knew to go sit vigil beside her mother as she dissolved into Essence.

“Perhaps I shall ask Hollow to teach me what they learned.” She hesitated, glanced at him, watching for a reaction at learning about his darling Hollow Knight. He had gone stiff, eyes frozen in a far-off gaze. “They're doing all right, by the way. It has been a process, letting them learn to be a person, and not some sort of weapon. They decided – on their own – to apprentice under Midwife, and assisted in their first laying not long ago.”

Now he was looking away, head turned, not even trying to keep up any appearances beyond his own, pitiful misery.

“They wrote me a letter.” Her sentences became spears, voice shaping barbs upon each syllable. “Do you know what they said in it? They said that being brought back from the brink of death showed them they were _worth_ saving. Because to them, they were nothing. When I brought them home to Deepnest, it was so easy to think they had simply died with the way they laid there, their broken mask, all the scarring and the missing arm – by my ancestors' blood, I saw what they looked like, infected. If you had sealed the Abyss properly, and Little Ghost had not been there, death would have been the only mercy I could grant them.” She noticed the tears only when they dripped off her jaw, ran down her chelicerae. “I've lost so many people, and it's all because of you. And I would have had to kill them, too.”

The light had been warm, and burning, as it bubbled through them. Cysts the size of her face bulged from their carapace, breaking the shell apart, infection and Void weeping from the wounds, coating their abdomen in dried pus.

“You made me and used me to kill my mother, and you would have let my sibling die, too.”

Their eyes, no longer theirs, stared. Shock, as she flew in. Anger. The feeling of a predator sizing up prey.

“I was right.”

She pushed off the railing.

“You were a monster all along.”

She strode forwards.

“A cowardly, manipulating, misanthropic-”

Her strike hit air so solid the shock reverberated up her arm, her bare hand aching from the impact.

She had not noticed the glow of Soul building. Not until she realized she stood before a spell-shield, far more rigid in its linework than anything Weaver-made. Not until she had to squint to see the sheen of the Pale King's wings flared, the bright light stabbing into her eyes.

It dimmed, until he was plain again, and the spell faded away.

“Where was your needle?” he rasped. There was a shine in his eyes; she told herself it was from the Soul, or the rapid flicker from when he used foresight.

She had no answer for him. She backed off, scowling, fangs bared.

“Do not give me that face. You know you are right.” The rasp gained an acridness, so bitter it dried the space between them. He tilted his head down, almost a glare, certainly serious, the shine in his eyes pooling. A hand reached out from under his robe, gesturing to the glorified ruins of the White Palace. “This is my containment. You saw what I am.” He shook his head, slow, the edges of his crown glinting. “That's not dead, Hornet. It never was. Do you know what I did, back then?”

Her scowl became a confused, determined frown, as she searched through her memory for anything he could mean. “The Radiance-”

“Was nothing but an obstacle, and not the first.” He exhaled, slowly, not quite a sigh. “This was my mother's territory. Part of it. Hallownest was nothing but a quaint corner of caverns, one I never took notice of in my youth.”

“Something, some other god, killed her, and took her territory. And so, when I heard, I returned here and did the same.” He nodded, off towards the distance, the nothingness beyond. “I hardly remember what they were, and it does not matter now. Their body is scattered across a length even a wyrm would find far, and someone is bound to have picked the last shreds of meat from it by now.”

The Pale King lifted a hand, tangling his fingers in a branch as the breeze picked up again and blew it towards him. “That was well before the Radiance. She was nothing, not even worth driving from my lands, until I chose to die here. After that, you know what happened.”

She did. She knew what happened. At once, she knew too well and she did not know enough. The recent, the personal, that was fresh. But the old, the aspects so far gone they'd faded even from myth... she knew those little better than anyone else.

“Bugs like your mother, your friend Lillien, that Mikei boy you said she spoke of, the Great Knights, they were either food or a curiosity. A mild amusement, something that could be toyed with.” His tail flicked, the movement catching her eye. “I experimented with them, when I realized they could have a mind and thoughts. What drew their worship, what caused fear, how I could coax them to change their ways. The monster who sired you spent centuries learning someone like you was a person. And all he can do now is ask you not to forget that same thing.”

“I'm not you.” She crossed her arms, backing off and finding a place to lean on the railing. She shook her head, said again, as a reassurance, “I'm not you.”

“No. Nor are you your mother. But it is all too close, and it will become difficult, once the generations begin to pass.” Quiet tapping, as he drummed on the railing. “Find something to ground you.”

“I'm not you.” Generations? She would see Lillien and Mikei grow old, and they had grown up together. She would watch Midwife age and die before that. Devout would hatch who never knew her mother. Weft would die, too, the last full-grown Weaver left. They might not even have the time to pass down Weaver heritage to the few children who survived. If the children's children, and so on, didn't make it... she could watch Weavers die out of Deepnest. “I'm not a god, I'm not you.”

But Grimm had said it, too. Claimed she was approaching godhood. Ghost had already achieved it. She had no idea if Hollow had. She knew people had been drawn to the Black Egg Temple, though she had never been sure if it was for the Radiance's worship or for her sibling's.

Was it inevitable, like growing? Would it be painful as her last molt, divinity bursting through her shell without any way for her to heal?

Would she know, if she became a god?

“Why did you do this to me?” Her voice came out muffled. She blinked; since when had she sat down, curled up in a ball, forehead pressed to her knees, which she hugged close to herself? Why did she have to do this now?

Quiet taps, and then the sliding sound of multiple legs being folded under on the hard floor, announced her father sitting near her. Not quite right beside her, but still in arm's reach if she dared.

“Because the only other option was to leave your mother in miserable pain again, potentially kill her, and know another clutch failed.” She could hardly hear him. “And if, in the end, it was not you, then some other hatchling, now never to be born, would be in your place, asking the same thing.”

She turned her head, pressing her cheek into her knee. She had not heard of a failed clutch before her, and the knowledge of it seeped cold into her heart. Was it just the one? Was it many? How many times had her parents tried, only to lose it all? At the same time, it would not be his first experience with dead hatchlings. “Why would that even matter to you?”

He sighed, for certain this time, until she could hear him empty his lungs completely. “Because I grew tired of death. Don't think I didn't know, Hornet, that those were my children dead in the Abyss, breaking themselves in an attempt to reach me, their parent. Any one of them, I could have saved and brought back to be lavished with attention and affection. Each one could have grown up in the Lady and I's arms, learned art, science, and writing instead of solely warfare and combat. Each one I loved, even as they failed.”

They let the silence hang between them, cold and dampening to the emotions. It exhausted her. How could talking be this tiring? How could simply feeling do this to her, leave her so drained?

“And then there was you.” It was almost, _almost,_ a whisper. “I had found so much, with my Lady, the Knights, the entirety of Hallownest, your sibling. Yet my duty to Hallownest drove a distance between me and everything I needed the most, even as I indulged in pretending that, some day, I could be your sibling's father.”

Carapace tapped on carapace.

“And then there was you. When you hatched, everything became real. More real than it had been, for all I could remember. I had a duty to you and your siblings. When I first held you, I could think of nothing but how I had failed you all.”

Her words were muffled, halfway trapped in the fabric of her cloak. “So I have always just made you miserable.”

He scoffed. “No, I did that to myself. That you were a handful growing up was just... was just how children behave, and I was not ready to be your father. You deserved better.”

She shifted, laying her forearms on her knees so her hands were visible. “I've found better.” And she began to count. “There's Cornifer, Iselda, Mato, Ogrim's been invaluable help, Quirrel, Midwife, Sheo, Lias, even Troupe Master Grimm.”

There was a quiet _“Troupe Master...”_ cut off with an exasperated hiss. But a couple of breaths later, he said, as steadily as usual, “Good. Take care of each other. You'll need it.”

As his words trailed off, as he started another thought and elected not to see it through, Hornet let everything ache.

She pushed herself to her feet, lingering to gaze out beyond the balcony. Such a small place to live, really, when it was your home for an eternity. If only she could not imagine what had driven him to seal himself away here.

She would find a way out, she knew. It would be behind her, take her through the facsimile of her old room. She knew it like she knew the walk to the Lake of Unn.

“Hornet.”

She paused, turned to look over her shoulder.

As she watched, the Pale King produced a rolled scroll from the folds of his robes and held it out, not looking at her, not even turning towards the door.

“It's for your sibling.”

Hollow, she presumed. He had never known Ghost. If she only had one sibling to him, so be it. He could learn better some other time, if there was another time.

Her hand came to rest on it, fingers curling around it. But he did not let go, not yet.

“I do not know how you got in here,” he said, his voice dead again. He shook is head, as if he were a corpse being dangled from some great beast's claws. “But please, do not let them come in.”

He dropped it, Hornet's hand pulling sharply away as his fell. She stared, blinked, tucked the scroll into her cloak. She had no interest in letting Hollow in, herself. What would they think, surrounded by this horrid, deadly approximation of their home? She, at least, had known others, had Deepnest, the Hive, the entire rest of Hallownest to consider her home. Hollow, she was not certain if they considered Deepnest a home yet.

She began to walk away.

The words built, hot and sharp on her tongue, prickling at her throat and mind. They seemed so simple to ignore.

And yet.

"You didn't even apologize." She stopped herself in her tracks, even as she tensed and her heart raced, telling her to flee, to take this fight up later. She was tired. She was done. Yet there was always, always something more. She would bleed herself dry if it meant watching him do the same.

He sighed, or something, she knew it. He would never admit such a thing without hesitation. "What would the point be? I have told you, I seek no forgiveness."

Nor, apparently, would he admit such a thing had been necessary at all. She whirled around, cloak flaring like a threat, and some last bastion within her snapped. "The point would be so I did not have to come here and listen to you evade the problem and make excuses for yourself! I did not come here to listen to you tell me how to be the god I am not, nor did I come here to hear about your dead father when in complete and total honesty, so many problems would be solved if you had died, too."

Her heart pounded and fluttered in her chest, unable to keep up with itself. Tears stung anew, and her breath weighed heavier with each inhale. "But you won't do it. You won't even say you were sorry for what you did."

"Hornet, I-"

She shook her head. "Don't tell me you cared. Don't tell me you felt sorry all along and never said a thing about it. It's too late now. Even Mato, who only met me once before, helped when Midwife and Grimm had to pull my wings out of my back, because your blood left me broken and bleeding in Greenpath. He sat there with me and made sure I molted right. And then, when I saw him again, he was _happy_ to see me. He treated me like his own, not some foreign thing embedded in his household."

He hissed under his breath, mandibles so snarled and tangled together Hornet did not quite consciously understand what he said, only catching something about listening. “I never meant to-”

“But you did.” She relished in his flinch, as if she had slashed him across the face with her needle. He had no spell-shield to keep her voice down.

The shine in his eyes grew brighter, more widespread. Not his foresight, then, different in tell and useless in this moment. A spell, maybe, something to reject her fully from this realm. She could barely hear him when he spoke, dull and powerless. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled her cloak tighter over her shoulders, pressing her winglets as close to her back as she could. She turned away, marched for the door. “Don’t bother. It’s too late.”

“Hornet,” he said, his voice rising as she walked off, “I’ve lost my kingdom, my people, I cannot even call myself a husband with any certainty. All that is left of me is being your father.”

“No.” She gripped the door handle so tight she felt her carapace snap along her fingertips. “You’re not, anymore.”

She glanced back once, as she opened the door, studying his form. She had been approaching his height for a long time now, but when had he begun to seem so...

She shook her head and stepped into a brilliant glow.


	52. Flashback VIII: Cradle

_Sleep evaded him that night, despite his best efforts. His usual nerves were accompanied by an unfamiliar space and body sleeping beside him, and all of it exacerbated by being woken every couple hours._

_He found himself awake at what must have been an early hour, no longer far too early but instead at the point sleep was a foregone conclusion, and all he could do was watch Herrah's side rise and fall. She had been awake as much as he, but now she slept easily. Perhaps she was not as prone to thoughts that would not leave. Valuable, he supposed, especially since she ruled alone and could not redistribute the following day's tasks between herself and a partner, like he and the Lady did when one needed rest._

_A shift, an exhale, drew his eyes to the cradle between them. He'd been pressing it into his stomach all night, leaving a dull ache when he sat up to attend to the hatchling._

_Dark eyes, barely open, stared at him, waiting for his response. The hatchling did not start to huff, and curl all their limbs in, which seemed to be their prerequisite for the piercing cry that had cemented they were not a Vessel, in addition to waking their parents multiple times. To feed, to be cleaned, simply for Herrah to kiss and cuddle them until they slept again. Any cause was worth shrieking._

_He was frozen in place. They'd just woken up. They were watching him, because on some level, even if it was simply the practical, he was important to them. They knew nothing but the den, their mother, him, Midwife, a grown sibling. They knew nothing of gods and kings. Their world was small, intimate, filled with nothing but home and their family. There were no troubles outside their own needs. A peaceful life, despite where it was._

_He could leave right now. Find the Pure Vessel, walk away, leave the child to their mother. Avoid them as much as possible when Herrah and the Weavers visited to finish the spell. Refuse to take custody, let Herrah have every day with them until her last, then work with Vespa to have her take the child, since she was already going to train them when they grew old enough. He could be nothing to them. They could be nothing to him, only Deepnest's next ruler. A nuisance._

_Or he could be a father._

_The word crashed into him, shoving him down until he bent over the cradle, scooping up the hatchling. He held them close, snug against his torso, as if their presence could ease the strange lightness, the churning within. They were so small, half the Pure Vessel's size when he had brought them from the Abyss. How was it possible for them to be so small? And so soft? He could press in their carapace, an idea that made his heart thump in his throat._

_They squirmed, scrubbing an eye with a clumsy fist, trying to roll over in his arms._

_Oh._

_He focused, dimming his glow until it was almost nothing. It took another moment to keep it down, not let the roil of his thoughts drive it back up again. He hurt them. How could he hurt them? Another shard of guilt slid into his heart, scraping against its fellows like broken glass._

_But, now that he was not too bright, they pressed their face into him, sighing. Tiny fingers, like those of a doll, grasped his robes, kneading away._

_They were comfortable. Were they comfortable? They were. He was holding them, and they were comfortable. He drew them closer, until they seemed downright cozy in his arms, and he stroked their temple with a thumb. How snug they were. How... snuggled._

_He'd not- He'd not done this before._

_He had seen parents and children before, observed acts of affection, usually between his retainers and their offspring. In rare, tragic moments, he watched guardians hold their wards while he presided over complicated, messy cases that had taken their parents away, one way or another._

_He had never taken much note of it. He had never thought he would be in such a position himself. Only recently had he wanted children at all; practically a whim, at his lifespan._

_Now it was his turn, all the same as any other parent, mortal or immortal. Here a hatchling was in his arms, and for all their life, they would be his child. He would be their father. He would be a father for all the rest of the time he lived._

_Why could it not have been something better than this, if it had to happen at all?_

_The White Lady would have been elated, holding their hatchling in her arms. Or a few; while wyrms tended to lay one egg at a time, his wife grew lush with seeds- eggs due to his species – when she was unbound. They would certainly cull a clutch, but with them there, she would likely convince him to keep at least a couple. They would look like Vessels, like this one did, but not marked by what he had done. He would make them a nest-_

_No, no, they would have a cradle-_

_He already had a child. He needed to make them a nest._

_But they had a cradle._

_He bit back a groan at the surge of instinct, laying down on his side, holding the hatchling to him and off the floor. The urge to burrow pulled at his sides, at his jaws and crown. Burrow. Make a small cavern. Gather the softest, fluffiest moss and fabric pieces, anything that would make them comfortable, lest the materials scratch and irritate their tiny, new body. Did he not know they were cold? What would they do when he was gone? How would they hide?_

_They weren't safe._

_They weren't safe here, why hadn't he done this earlier? Why had he not thought to nest? Why had he abandoned his egg? What if he lost them?_

_They weren't safe and it was all his fault._

_He jolted at the sensation of unfamiliar hands pawing at his carapace. The child had pushed past his robes, and now worked on sticking their face underneath, too, their crescent horns bobbing as they nudged the fabric away._

_Right. They were a spider, and they didn't care for a wyrm's nest. And they were half-mortal, unlike any children born from himself and his Lady. Yet, despite their mother's mortality, he could feel it, the sparks of power, of a soul strengthened. Barely there, though, weakened from what he did to them, the unintentional passing of the Void clinging to him. Some days, he felt that if he pierced his skin, he would bleed more black than blue._

_He passed them up to be held entirely in his upper arms. Here he could not only feel but hear their breaths puffing against him, warm and gentle. They had only been drawing breaths for a night, but already the idea that they would stop one day drove a pick into his stomach. They needed to keep going. Even if, some day, they'd grow too big, too aware of what he had done, to be settled on his shoulder where he could hear and feel how alive they were. For now, though, all they cared was that he was their father, and he held them._

_He cradled their head, supporting them, holding their cheek to his collar as he sat up. They would need something sooner or later, or Herrah would wake and want her child. He ought to be ready to give them back._

_He hesitated, staring at the hatchling bundled against him, eyes still mostly closed, content, soft arms curled between their thorax and chubby abdomen._

_Slowly, cautiously, he pressed a kiss to their forehead._

_And he sat like that, cupping their round little face, inhaling the scent of egg and newness, feeling how soft and delicate their carapace was. They were so small. Only a night old. They'd never met a morning before. They trusted him to introduce them to it._

_They tilted their head up, whuffing around, their breaths meeting his. A hand found his cheek, dragged down to grab his chelicerae. They tugged, and it hurt, and he untangled them before they could try sticking it in their open mouth. Their fangs, so small they were almost translucent, glinted with his light._

_They blinked, as if surprised he would do such a thing. Dark eyelids opened fully at last, and the hatchling gazed up at him. They gazed up at him with his eyes, set in another face. Dark and sharp and not quite round at this age, and judging by the Pure Vessel's face, the shape was bound to grow narrower, more oval, as they grew._

_They were his. They were undeniably his. And he was theirs. He would never, despite whatever he had to put the child through, all these horrible things waiting, two losses born alongside them, stop being theirs. Perhaps they would hate him for it. Certainly he would deserve it._

_He snuggled them again, because he could, because they didn't know right now, and for now all he needed to do was be a new father. He wasn't ready for this. The Hollow Knight, in all their purity, had been simple and uncomplicated to raise, provided ground rules were set and obeyed. He had ruled a kingdom for centuries, ensuring an entire population was safe, cared for, learned, improved. He had faced gods and won. But. Despite everything, he wasn't ready for this._

_They didn't care. They just needed him to do what he could._

_A foot twitched, kicking the air. Again, again, and he realized it was not so much that they were in need of something, but rather that the ability to move fascinated them. They had spent so long bundled tight in their egg, barely moving until it was time to hatch. Now, instead of that immobilizing, liquid environment, they were in the wide open, and they could kick whatever (and likely whoever) they pleased._

_He held a hand out, curious. The hatchling didn't seem to take notice then, only kicked again as if he'd done nothing. They blinked when he caught their foot, holding it gently, curling his fingers around it to rub its top and marvel yet again on how soft they were._

_Though he held them loosely enough they ought to be able to keep moving with minimal impediment, he felt a sharp inhale against his chest._

“ _Beeeeeee!” the hatchling bleated._

_He dropped their foot and turned them towards him, muffling the sound. Bouncing them, trying to soothe them even though they'd stopped the noise, he shushed them and whispered, “Don't wake your mother.”_

_Herrah, for her part, stirred, but did not sit up, nor ask for her child. He certainly would not attempt to rouse her further. The night had been long, and he was not the one who would be sitting with the hatchling again tonight. No, that would not happen again for many nights, not until they were old enough to sleep through them. That part of their childhood was forfeit._

_They grabbed his robes again, pushing their way underneath. With a resigned sigh he opened his robes enough to tuck them inside, resting their head on his shoulder again. It was a foreign sensation, someone else holding onto him. The only bugs who didn't give him a wide berth were the Lady, enemies, or chosen Dreamers. Or, in Herrah's case, both of the latter._

_But... she wasn't an enemy any more. She was a key ally to ending the infection, providing the skill of her Weavers and the strength of her mind. She was the mother to his child. Or, rather, he was the father to hers._

_The hatchling squirmed, joints pressing into him, scrabbling and shifting. They were propped on their forearms now, looking around, inhaling in little gasps as if on the search for some sort of scent. He was not sure how well they could see; spider eyes were weak at hatching, and for the first couple years of childhood. The Hollow Knight had seen just fine when he brought them back to the White Palace, though, and the hatchling was not a pure spider. It was up to Midwife to examine them later, determine which side of biology the hatchling took after._

_Right now, though, they seemed... curious. Seeking out something new, something interesting._

_It blurred the line between fantasy and foresight, what he saw. The hatchling, older of course, learning to draft a blueprint, his hands covering theirs while he showed them how to use a compass and line up a ruler. Ideas flowing back and forth, knowledge passed from father to child to complement their natural curiosity and desire to experiment, seek the boundaries of the world around them. Their own creations, the prototypes proudly lining a shelf while the others did whatever their heart desired them to do._

_His workshop was his sanctuary. The White Lady almost never entered. Servants never dared to pass the doorway. Nobles didn't know where it was. He was still, at his core, a solitary creature, and his workshop served as the one place he could trust to be alone._

_Yet, at the same time..._

_He wanted them in it, too._

_For now, though, he slowly raised his wings, the one side fanning out in full display of their iridescence, the thin veins branching like rivers viewed from a mountain's peak, the overall deceptive delicateness._

_Their breaths came faster. They wiggled in his arms, trying to crawl forwards. One hand batted at the wings, too short to reach anything but air._

_Would they like flight? There wasn't room for it in here, but he imagined finding somewhere spacious, where he could hold them tight to his thorax and fly, let them feel the air currents against them, the almost weightless sensation and freedom of being airborne._

_Perhaps it would be good to introduce them to it. He stroked their back with the back of his knuckles, feeling for anything that could prove as evidence for wing buds, tiny as they might be. There wasn't exactly much precedent for wyrm hybrids; he had heard the other males brag endlessly about their bloodlines going unsullied, how those who reincarnated had been so prolific in their first form that there was no need to seek out other mates. He had no idea what aspects they could have inherited._

_He had tried to craft something for the Pure Vessel when they were still small, a creation that granted them ethereal wings. Just in case they developed them. He'd spent far too many nights awake to make it, and it had cost him; the spellwork wings were not stable, disappearing midair. But they were powerful, and he hoped that practice would let the Pure Vessel harness that power into a longer-lasting form. He had sent them out with the wings, told them to practice, and to return to the Palace at a given time._

_They had come back scratched and bleeding, wings missing. To this day, he had no idea what happened._

“ _That's so cute,” Herrah mumbled, low and warm._

_His wings snapped against his back, the hatchling squealing over it. “'Cute?'” he asked dryly._

_Herrah sat up, yawning and stretching. She reached out, and as he settled the hatchling, now full-on wiggling, in her arms, she said, “Pale King, after what we've done together, I believe I have full permission to call you cute. Particularly considering the mechanical issues we had.” She turned her attention to the hatchling, tickling their belly. “But you were worth it! Yes you were! Even if I'll have to find a way to teach you how to walk on two legs! What darling little legs they are, too. So fat.”_

“ _Herrah...” Was this part of her attempts at bringing him down? All this cooing? Was she teasing him for being so awestruck he'd not even noticed her waking?_

“ _Come now. I watched you spread your wings for them, and I distinctly recall your panicked flapping when I brushed them on accident. You love them already.”_

“ _It's brooding instinct,” he insisted, the words falling flat._

_It was all already too complicated for this._


	53. Letters II: I Have Made Mistakes

Hollow startled when Hornet awoke with a jolt and a gasp, picking herself up off the ground. Tears pricked at her eyes; what had happened? Was she hurt? They set a finger under her chin, lifting her head for inspection.

She stared at them, gasped for a time, then her eyes went wide and she desperately patted at her cloak, dropping the thing, the Dream Nail, that Ghost had given her in the process. Ghost paid it no mind, swatting at Hornet's cloak, too, as if that would help her find what she was looking for.

She produced, of all things, a scroll, tied with a ragged strip of white cloth. She held it out to them, hesitated, arm drooping. Her eyes slid away from theirs. “It's from him,” she spat.

Could it...? No. The Hollow Knight wanted to say it was impossible, that he was gone, but... They knew the dream realm far better than anyone would ever want to. They knew what it did to the dead.

They took it, fingers trembling as they clamped it between their knees and pulled the cloth tie off. The trembles grew to shaking as they unrolled the scroll, holding it open but so unsteady they struggled to read, until Ghost and Hornet stepped up to gently hold their hand in place, provide the proper support.

Dull blue-purple specks dotted the silk, gathered in bunches, some lightly smeared. None thick enough to make the fabric crisp and stiff.

Names took up the top of the page. Most illegible, scribbled out. Some, not so. Lumen. Clarity. Spark. Prism.

Two large bars, so thoroughly written out they almost tore through the silk, sat above the letter's actual start.

\--

My child,

What is there for me to say to you?

It pained me to watch the infection rise again. She had returned, despite everything. The Vessel plan failed. Hallownest, everything I had worked for, was dying before my eyes.

I failed you.

You, your siblings (your sister), your mother, the Dreamers, Hallownest.

You were my hatchling. I watched you grow up, and I was so proud. I told myself it was pride at a working plan, at finding a solution to Hallownest's ills. The kingdom was saved.

Yet I was not enough. I loved you. I loved you dearly, and hid it. But not well enough, and everything must have added up. Or you were never pure at all.

Were any of the Vessels ever pure?

The Void sea thrashed when I brought the eggs to it. I thought it instinctual reaction. When you learned Soul spells, I thought it training. Why did I never listen to you? Why did I never listen to your sister, when she insisted she knew who you were, and refused to let you be anything less than sibling?

You know why. Anything would be worth it, to save the kingdom, the people. To prevent this corner of the world from becoming nothing more than a barren ruin.

No cost too great.

Often, I asked myself what it would be like, to properly be your father. If I spared you from the Void. If I watched you hatch, and heard you cry for the first time in my arms. It was a powerful draw. You would know it best.

You meant everything to me. You deserve someone who will not leave that in doubt.

As I write, I do not know if you will survive. Only that you fell to the infection, and I left my child to die, alone and afraid, hung in chains and barred behind three people's very lives.

There is no repentance, no reparations I can pay. There can be no forgiveness for what I have done to you, or to your sister, or any of your siblings.

After the Sealing, your sister – her name is Hornet, now – stopped calling me her father. Often I wished for her to start again, or that you could have called me that at all, and I would respond. Now I cannot see it as anything but the bitterest poison, one I fed you, your sister, myself.

Please, I beg of you, find love. Open, and warm, as you always needed, as you always deserved. Leave Hallownest, if you must. Create it for yourself. Find those who will give it to you. Please.

Please.

–

Ink smeared, black and blue swirling together.

The scroll crumpled in their hand. Hornet shouted, Ghost tapped their wrist. The letter wasn't done. Their father had written more. Something for them. For _them._

They pushed their siblings aside. Ghost darted forth.

Hollow won, snatching the Dream Nail before Ghost could take it. They readied it, felt it blaze to life, and swung.


	54. Shine

It looked like home, but it wasn't.

The architecture was right, the leaves and vines entwining the columns and walls. But it was in pieces, and the whine of saws burrowed into their carapace.

They stood in the armory, before a case. Behind the glass, on a mannequin almost invisible, as if the pieces floated on their own, was their ceremonial armor. Not quite all pale ore, even for the king and queen that was too grand an expense, considering how they had grown. They were still intricate, and finely crafted, the pauldrons, the gauntlet, the breastplate. And with how polished the glass was, they could see the pieces resting on their reflection.

They turned away, silent as ever.

As they passed, they drew a nail from the rack on the wall. It was practiced, almost instinct. Palming it, the weight felt _right_ in their hand, and it was as if they had never not been a knight. Always armed, nail and Soul an extension of their very being.

They would have to retrain, missing an arm. Mato would be there to help them, now that they were steadier on their feet. Maybe Ogrim, too. They heard nothing of the other Knights, save for finding Dryya's corpse. Did Ghost know their fates? Did Hornet?

The sound of buzzsaws drew them in. They didn't hear the staff, or any nobility, nor anyone else. Not truly trapped in the dream realm, nor lingering fragments. Only their footsteps and a distant, mechanical scream.

Tracks upon tracks of buzzsaws, cutting between platforms too small for them to balance on without either tipping forward or their cloak getting caught in a saw. The pattern stretched before them, the only thing cutting across a yawning chasm.

What else were they to do?

They drew their nail and swung.

A brief moment of resistance pulled at their arm, the saw fighting it into a sharp ache. Metal shrieked. But they were stronger, coming in perpendicular to it, and knocked the saw from its track. The blade flew free, teeth a blur as it spun and struck a nearby wall.

One foot on the platform. They checked their footing. They swung again.

Saw after saw flew off, tumbling through the air. Their arm ached, and ached, and ached again. Their legs dared to wobble. They forged on. They could not fall, they could not fail.

Chasm crossed, they found a statue. One sharing their own face, solemn and serious. There was no levity in this Pure Vessel's life. No Great Knights sharing jokes and stories, no mother and father whispering sweet nothings to each other only to startle when caught, no little sister clambering up until she perched proudly on their shoulder, squeaking her victory cry.

They tapped it with their nail, feeling Soul flow into them. Just in case. Just in case they stepped wrong, or needed to fire off a spell. And from that, they continued down the hall, as it grew narrower, darker.

Light bloomed. They stepped into, of all places, the sparring room, so far removed from the armory. The doors, behind and before them, slammed shut.

As their vision readjusted to the brightness, a Kingsmould awoke, white eyes blazing to life. It stomped, the only warning they ever gave before entering combat.

Their nail crashed into it before it could throw its weapon. As it attempted to regain its balance, Hollow plunged their nail down through one of its eyes until their nail exited its armor. A simple levering action and the armor broke apart. The Void being within, a simple creature barely formed to the armor it inhabited, gazed as them for a brief moment before it destabilized, Void dripping to the floor.

They stood there, for a moment, awaiting another challenger. More Kingsmoulds. Spectral versions of the Great Knights, perhaps. Something that wasn't this silence.

But nothing came. And so they moved on.

A knot formed in their gut when they came across a wall, woven with thorns, stairs broken away. A soft light, more like candles or tired lumaflies, called to them from high on the wall.

They had to answer it. And so they climbed.

Their nail dug into the wall, working between it and the thorns. Their feet scrabbled, the thorns digging into their carapace. Void sprung free, dripping down. Their arm, their torso, burned with the effort to pull up, to find purchase.

It was only a few hops. A few long, painful hops, forced to trust the strength of their nail and their own body, scarred and weakened. Their prime form was gone. Yet it was not that long ago they would not have been able to make it to the Palace gates.

Shaking, numb, limbs far too heavy, they found the ledge. The light bathed them in its glow, cool and soft and welcoming. They pulled their entire body up, head fallen, crouched on one knee, and focused. Soul welled in their wounds, reforming scratched and pierced carapace, easing the aches. It would not fix everything. But it fixed enough.

They stood, resting their nail against the wall. They had no sheath for it. It would do fine here. They would not need it, they knew it.

One foot in front of the other, they stepped forwards, into that light.

A balcony. One where the branches whispered while they cloaked the place from view. One with a small pile of scrolls off to the side, ready reading material.

They turned their head, and that was when they noticed him.

They winced, stumbling back, shielding their eyes. It burned – it burned cold, but it burned all the same. Cold hadn't hurt before. Cold never hurt.

Yet they stumbled still, and fell, their knees striking the stone floor, turned away from the frigid, searing light.

Sunrise had not been so brilliant. Sunrise had not flooded everything with this sort of brightness, painful and all-encompassing and pure.

They could not cry. They had never been able to cry, but their eyes stung and ached and told them what it was like to _need_ to cry.

A quiet, hushing whisper.

Hands, barely warm at all, cold compared to other bugs, found their back. Two more gripped their upper arm, but even that was too close, turning everything painfully white. Hollow pulled away on reflex, sitting back so they could bury their mask in the crook of their arm, and the hands on their back retreated, too.

“Hollow Knight...” His voice was not some mere surface thing, something simply heard. It surrounded them, softly drowned out the sound of wind and swaying branches, cut through their carapace and into the Void and reverberated through the very Abyss. While he spoke, his words were everything.

“Pure Vessel,” he tried. The emotion they knew – they had hoped, they had always, always hoped – he felt overwhelmed his voice, like it always had, when everything became too much. It became so much that most bugs heard no feeling in it at all.

Most never would have caught the hitching breath, either.

“My hatchling.” No whisper had ever cut so deep.

He reached out again, fingertips brushing their back. When they did not move, his full hands settled on them like they had, though tense, ready to leave them again at any time. Like a breath, he whispered, “Not you, too.”

One hand flipped over, two knuckles running up and down their back, as high up as he could reach. Only once had they felt this before, this almost distant yet deeply familiar touch, when their mother held them in the prison she made for herself. They had watched Herrah and the Lady do it for Hornet, when she was small and something upset her. The retainers did it for their children, too, an addition to a loving embrace or to comfort them when they were unwell. Even Dryya did it, when she brought one of her nieces and the child got scared upon seeing The Hollow Knight. Yet it had never been for them, not until their mother admitted their failure.

They shuddered. What did they do? When would this stop feeling too foreign to be comfort?

The quiet shushing began again. As if they really were a hatchling, scared to the point of breakdown. A child. Yet Hollow had never seen the Pale King act like this, not even for Hornet. He spoke to her, held her as needed, but if he had ever whispered these wordless things it had not been under their purview.

A small spark lit at the idea of being favorite. Guilt snuffed it, wearing their siblings' eyes. They shuddered harder.

“How could I do this to you?” he rasped. His fingers curled against their back, bunching up enough of their cloak it didn't dig into them, but they felt the pressure. “How could I ever try to comfort you? You cannot even bear to suffer my face.”

The touch stopped, the pressure abated, hands lifting away. The light dimmed, slightly, as he backed off, tucking his arms tight around himself with a whisper of fabric.

And they could not tell him. They could not tell him how bright he was, how he shone. That that was why they could not look. How it was far more intense than it had ever been outside the dream realm, making the Void he'd formed them from prickle and writhe.

He was their father. That's all they had ever wanted him to be. That was all they ever needed of him. But it hurt.

“Please leave me. Spare us both. Leave this place, Vessel. Let your mother think me dead, let her move on, tend to Hallownest's future, not the ugliest facets of its past.” It almost sounded like an order, not a plea, the way he said it.

Out of similar practice, they almost stood, tensing in preparation to get up. But they hurt, and if they were going to hurt leaving or staying, they would rather be near their father one more time.

They leaned back, settling so their weight rested on their ankles, toes braced against the balcony's floor.

He took a half step back, ready to rebuke them. “If you are- are you injured? If you are not, leave, please.” The _please_ left in an exhausted rush. “I have naught to offer you.”

But he did. He had tried to comfort them, cooed to them, soothed them. He had careful, caring touches, and the soothing rumble of his voice, the strength of his presence. Did he not see? All they would need was him to just be there.

He had not seen. Not before. He kept them around, coddled them like he was not supposed to, fussed over them. He was proud of them. Yet he never said a thing, never implied they were not pure. Had it been intentional obliviousness, refusing to see the obvious? (How obvious had they been?) Had they hidden everything so well?

It made their stomach ache, uncurling their arm from around their eyes. They hesitated. He knew. They knew he knew, he had asked them a question, he spoke of their suffering, he called them hatchling. But how long had they been the Pure Vessel? How long had everything relied on them being thoughtless, emotionless, empty? How long had he brushed that aside, indulging in the idea that broke them? And yet he still let them be a tool. 

And yet they still wanted him to say it was okay.

They heard him step forwards, then skitter back, when their elbow moved. They froze, the Void within them crackling at the bright light.

It was slow. Painful, almost, though not like losing their arm, like feeling their thorax bubble through with illness he had left them vulnerable to.

They reached for him, palm up, fingers splayed. They could not look. 

He approached, slow, but in a cautious way, not like when he was out in public and his pace gave him a stately air. The light grew, it surrounded them, and they shrank back from it, curling up. But it did not go away, they could not go away.

Their father's hands found them again, cradled them as best he could, tucking their arm back against them, pressing gentle support into their side. They winced when he found one of the sunken wounds. What would he think of it? This evidence of their failure?

A weight against their back. The outline of his cheek, the edges of his horns. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching and shuddering.

They had never seen him cry before. They had seen him stressed, angry, perturbed, overwhelmed, and he had never cried. If only they could be small now, the little thing he had brought from the Abyss, small and soft like Hornet had been, and they could fit all tucked up against his thorax, and he could hold them. They never got that. He never got that.

They just wanted to start it all over again.

Just let them do it right this time.

One more chance.

One more chance without the Radiance, without the infection. One chance where Hallownest would be okay, and they did not need to be the Pure Vessel, or The Hollow Knight.

They could not cry with him, but they felt patches of their cloak begin to stick to their carapace, clinging to them with its own desperation.

He inhaled, sharp and almost pained. Both of them paused, waiting. Yet when he attempted to speak all he did was cough out the air, pressing his forehead into their cloak, his grip readjusting as if he could cradle them.

Time blurred. They could have sat there for a matter of minutes, or hours, and knew not the difference. Everything was them, their father, the branches sheltering them as they tried to find the path from King and Knight to parent and child.

The world clarified when the Pale King's breaths slowed, the hitching becoming more gradual, until it was steady again, like ripples washing against a lakeshore.

“I do not expect you to forgive me,” he said, and even if they had been in a crowd thousands broad, Hollow knew the words were only for them. He ran his knuckles against them, short and slow strokes. “Only to...”

The words faded. He turned his head, shifted when his cheek pressed against a damp patch on their cloak. They could not make out the words, but knew the tone of what he muttered to be an apology.

“Hornet told me you're apprenticing under her caretaker.” It sounded like a question, uncertain, tears flooding each syllable. Had he ever seen a future where their life did not end with the Radiance?

“I'm proud of you.” The pressure of his grasp increased for the briefest moment. “The hatchlings will adore you.”

A pause. “Do you recall Hornet's first stay here? Her first stay alone. I thought she would never leave you be.”

He sighed, heavy and tired. He ran his hand up and down their back again. “What would you have done, if you were free to join in her play?”

They were not sure. Hornet had, over the years, become quite skilled at integrating them no matter how little they responded to her. Everything would have been so different. Better? They didn't know. They had been happy, as much as they pretended to simply follow orders. They had been happy letting her explain tag in detail so they were “able” to play. They had been happy scooping her up time and time again, feeling her loll about and giggle so hard her entire body rocked, responding to her call of, “Again! Again!” by tossing her onto her bed, or onto the chair. They had been happy when she climbed to the top of their head, trying to use the points of their horns as support to go up even further, and they plucked her free and settled her on their shoulder instead.

“If only I had listened to her.” He trailed off, continuing to absently rub their back. “Yet I did not, and here we are.”

Another pause. He began to gather their cloak, as if to move it aside, examine their scars himself.

They stiffened.

He dropped their cloak, smoothing it back in place.

It made them feel ill, the idea of him seeing what had happened to them. How would he take seeing all the wounds they inflicted, suffering the agony of their nail not only piercing their front but bursting through their back, the sensation of infection draining in high-pressure sprays? What about where their carapace had warped with the strength of the very thing they were made to contain? Or of their missing arm, nothing more than a stump with a ragged scar sewing it shut?

Hornet and Ghost had seen it all. Midwife had, of course, while she ensured they healed properly after Weft stitched them up. The Devout who had been at the hot spring when they threw Hornet in. The White Lady had examined them, felt out every last crag and crevice. Yet their father seeing it horrified them. They were so hurt because they had failed him, and drastically.

(Or... had he failed them?)

(Had the Vessel plan ever been viable at all?)

“Did you make this?” He had picked up part of their cloak again, and come to examine the hem. He still sounded exhausted, teary, and strangely dead. For all the rasp and wobble in his voice, it had flattened out.

They nodded. They knew it was not good, their stitches awkward and uneven compared to Midwife's. They had gone over it so many times, in the evenings when they were done wandering about the village or doing simple chores for the day, and had to repair the places their stitches failed. It was such a process, learning how to sew with one hand. Not that they had really sewn before being sealed away.

More weight pressed into them, and they realized he had sat down and was leaning on them, his side against their back. It was... strange. Casual. Familial, even.

It was all they ever wanted from him.

Yet here they were, carapace crawling at his light, utterly broken as a Pure Vessel. As simply Hollow, this thing, this person who had only existed in imaginations until they were freed, they were not sure what they were, broken or whole or fixed or what. He wasn't in much better shape, locked away in his own Palace as an eternal prison, with nothing but his own regrets to fill an immortal life.

“Looking back,” he said, and no matter how carefully he spoke it did not hide his feelings, “I should have been a better father to you.”

His head tilted back, the impressions of his horns clearer against their back. “And yet. What would be of us all then? Infected even sooner? Forced to flee? Even now, I struggle to comprehend the furious desperation I felt while creating the Vessel plan.”

“I would give so much, to let you have a proper childhood.”

But he hadn't, and here they were. Here was Hornet and Ghost, too. Not their other siblings, put to rest in the Abyss. Just the three of them, now, trying to get up and make better what had gone so wrong. He had not given them that chance, he had not sought out anything that maybe could have worked better than they, better than killing Hornet's mother and their hordes of siblings.

Yet, despite everything, they could not bring themself to hate him.

Nor did he hate them. They had failed, they had cost him Hallownest, either their failure or very existence drove a wedge between him and his wife and led to him hiding the entire Palace away in the dream realm. And all the same, here he was, resting against them and wishing he could have done better.

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath, something Hollow more of felt than heard. “For making a better life for yourself. If this accursed realm takes me, it is a comfort to go knowing my children's lives are improving. Yourself, your sister...” Again he steadied himself, shifting and swallowing hard. “Your sibling. Whichever one can enter a dream, and took the Kingsoul. I'd not seen their face, only felt the charm's absence. Do they still live? And live free?”

Hollow nodded. Their father didn't even know who Ghost was. All they were to him was a thief. They did not know whether they wished to laugh, bitter as it might have been, or weep for how little their own father knew his child, and how they could not tell him of them.

“Don't lose them,” he breathed.

They said nothing more. Neither did he. Neither could leave the other, not just yet. After everything... after everything, he was still their father. They were still his child. Even with how much went wrong. Even after all the pain, and all the loss. Even now that others had found the siblings, deemed them family, and the siblings claimed them back. (Recalcitrant as Hornet was about it.)

Was this why Ghost brought them back to the dream realm? Why they showed them the White Palace, ruined and dangerous? So they could sit there, as close to being held in their father's arms as they could ever get? So they could not even look at him, the light hurt so much? To say goodbye, properly, as if they had not already parted with a great and expected finality in the Black Egg Temple?

Eventually, the thought came to them that their siblings would want them back. Father may have not had anyone here in the Palace, but they had Hornet and Ghost to be concerned for, and who would be concerned for them. Besides, the dream realm's familiarity, now that they recognized it, itched in the back of their mind, crawled all over their carapace and deep in their shade. This was not their place. It never should have been. No matter how different it was, this bubble under their father's reign.

They stood, feeling the ache rocking through them for having sat too long, in too hunched and awkward a position. Lying back down again would have been nice, but they needed to move. They could not stay.

They held their hand out. When their father reached back, and they felt the press of his palm and fingertips, they curled their fingers around his hand in turn.

It would have to do, for a goodbye. Until, unless, they came back again, and wrote, or perhaps signed, and maybe his light would not hurt like it did this time.

They let go, or perhaps he did, first, and he rasped something wordless as they sought the dull glow of their freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Sorry to say, but I've been having a hard time writing the denouement. I only have part of one chapter written. I'd planned at least two, and might do a couple more. I'm going to have to take a hiatus to finish writing. I don't know how long it'll be, or when I'll post the chapters. I know what I want to have in them, but I was writing up a contest piece all February and my motivation flagged.
> 
> I'll try to respond to comments here and there, and know that even if I don't respond to your comment, I read and appreciate it! Beyond that, I will see you later!


	55. The Words I Cannot Say

The moment Hollow began to lift their head, Hornet pulled them into an embrace, her head pressed against their horn, their mask against her thorax. She shuddered, and hiccuped, her emotions freshly ripped open after Ghost had spent all the time Hollow laid there, passed out, trying to comfort her. She could not help it. To find the Pale King, the Palace, twisted and sad, it didn't feel real. She needed the one real thing left from then, and she clung to them like she did when they were the Pure Vessel and herself the Gendered Child.

Though, this time around, there was Ghost, nudging their way between their siblings and overall refusing to be forgotten. They settled in Hornet's lap and leaned over to nuzzle Hollow, too, mask clicking against them.

Hollow sat up, and gathered them, pulling them in against their abdomen to rest. How cool they were – pleasantly so, even in the often chilly Basin, after the temperatureless atmosphere left in the Palace.

“I can't believe he wouldn't even just-” She took a deep breath, feeling it shudder through her chest. “He wouldn't even stay dead.”

She sighed when her older sibling nuzzled her. Of all the things to happen in her life, she had thought the Pale King's death to be a simple one. He disappeared with the Palace, and never came back. Whatever took it took him, she presumed, and that was as much answer as she ever thought she would get. He was gone. That was it. He was not comatose, like her mother, or living and imprisoned, like her sibling. She likened it to Vespa's passing, when the Hive queen grew too big and died. There, and then gone, with no strange in-between.

Instead, no, now she had to find he had bound himself away, like the White Lady. He was around. His consciousness refused to let go no matter how broken, insisted on trying to justify himself, and she had what must have been centuries' worth of life, frozen in time, weighing on her now. She could not write him, his life, what he did to her, off as something never to be confronted, and thus never to think about.

It had felt nice, shouting at him, rebuking him. She had never done that during courts, or otherwise in public. Even young, she understood the need to keep up appearances. If she had ever been particularly upset with him, she stayed with the White Lady. Yet for how nice it felt, to get all those years' worth of thoughts and feelings out, she was so, so tired. She sunk into Hollow's embrace. Had they learned what she said to him? They thought of him so highly, would they be angry at her?

Clearly not enough for it to overcome the desire for companionship.

There was work to be done, and she knew it, though she could not get herself to stand up and go do any of it. Midwife had (to put it lightly) convinced a couple of the Devout to help show the bugs from the City of Tears how to hunt and forage in Deepnest, and if they were successful, there would be much to do to preserve their findings for when the eggs hatched and there were that many more mouths to feed. She had also let the Mantises and the Mosskin go about without much discussion at all, perhaps it was time to change that. Speaking of, she needed to talk to the White Lady about agriculture in her gardens.

Her blood chilled. The White Lady. Did she know her husband still lived?

Would she care?

She had left, gone to her gardens. She had left him just as much as he left her, though she knew her stepmother had kept her half of their wedding charm. It had never been around the Palace, and while the Pale King always kept his half close at hand, she had never seen them merged.

She had disowned him just as much as Hornet had, hadn't she?

The thought tore a bitter laugh from her throat. Hollow patted her back and she curled up, resting her head on her knees. Her stomach roiled and bubbled; she had done that. She had told him he was nothing to her, certainly not family. That they were related by blood had only been an unfortunate consequence to be suffered for a long time, ever since she was a small child. How long had she known he was so distant, and would never bridge the gap?

Really, all this did was make it official.

Yet she still found fresh tears working down her cheeks, pooling under her chin. She had lost so much already. She had thought him lost, too, and discarded him so soon after getting him back, in that strange way of the dream realm.

Perhaps it had been worth it. In exchange for what he did to her, to her mother, to her siblings. To the White Lady and to all of Hallownest. If she was all he had left, then removing herself from his picture would be the true end of him, wouldn't it?

Ghost pressed their cheek against hers, insistent. She pushed them back, towards Hollow. They were the one that gave her that strange nail, they were the one who showed her how to get into the Palace, how to find him. If they had not done so, if she had not taken it, if she had not swung...

For all her effort, she began to feel her face screw up, chelicerae working. A sob cut through her, strangely tearless on its own but it dug so deep. She had been crying so much, worn down as she was from everything. Everything that had been happening. The infection, the stasis, the losses she endured, the surprising things she gained nonetheless. But now, she let it come. She cut the last strings and indulged in a hiccup, a cough she would have thought pathetic as a child, let alone now. The tears dried; the empty ache inside welled, instead.

Hollow pulled her closer, until she was crumpled against them, hidden away under their cloak. There, where the world could not see her, not even the broken kingsmould and empty ruins, she sobbed as hard as she could let herself. She was tired. She needed a rest. She shouldered so much for so, so long. Could she not set her burden down, even for the briefest moment? What if she didn't? What if that was how she ascended to godhood, separated herself from the mortals she knew and watching them die one by one?

The thought drew a choking noise from her. She was just Hornet. She was born of god and Beast, but she was no god herself. She was protector, princess, and that was enough. More than enough. She did not need godhood, a sudden need for worship and devotion from the people already recovering from a divine war, on top of all that. She did not need whatever territorial tendencies came with it when she had her siblings by her side. What if she grew to hate them because they were in her space? What if they hated her?

Ghost squeezed themself up against her stomach again, as if to disprove the thought. This time she did not push them away, nor hiss, or bite, or any of those other things she used to do to people who got too close when she was young and upset. She let them curl up, resting their head against her, a strangely comforting weight.

Hollow's chelicerae brushed over her head, the grooming ineffective but soothing nonetheless. She could not reciprocate, but she pressed into them in an attempt to provide the same sort of comfort Ghost gave her. Was this why they were so permissive of her crawling and clambering all over them as a child? Knowing there was someone else there?

The three curled up, though from the outside it would look only to be the one, the broken Hollow Knight sitting among the ruins of the White Palace, their father's (just _their_ father's, now) second grave, cloak drawn around them. They stayed there, together, lingering even after Hornet's tears abated and Hollow stopped shuddering, small movements she only noticed when the ache in her chest did not overwhelm all.

Hollow was the first to stand, looping their arm around Hornet and Ghost to pick them up in the process. Though Hornet pulled herself free, dropping the short fall to the ground to walk alongside her sibling instead, Ghost stayed in their grasp. They might as well have been a hatchling against their clutchmate.

A thought broke through the heaviness of her heart, of the decimated landscape. _Ghost is such perfect practice._

She could not help but smile a little, turning her thoughts to the idea of Hollow laden with hatchlings, little sentry grubs and Deeplings and young Devout peeking over their shoulders and cradled in their arm.

At least she had these two. The family she was born to may be gone otherwise, but she had her siblings, and they'd brought half of Hallownest with them to make up for the yawning lack.

It was a quiet walk back through the Basin and into Deepnest. Her tram card itched in her pocket, and she shoved the thought away with a roil of disgust, focusing instead on watching for shadow creepers and any surviving mawleks, or ensuring Hollow's gait stayed steady. It was not quite as she remembered, vague as those memories were now. But they did not falter, or wobble, or push on until she could see how close they were to collapse.

Once they got to Deepnest's narrowing, convoluted tunnels, Hollow did kneel down, watching her with an insistence. Her attention caught, they nodded down at Ghost, bundled up in their arm. The smaller Vessel didn't move.

Ah. They'd fallen asleep, and Hollow could not both carry them and navigate the tunnels. She obliged the request, taking Ghost from their arm, resettling them against her, a tired amusement bubbling up as she waited for Hollow to crawl in before she followed along. She knew, technically, they were the same age, but she could not imagine Hollow curling up for an afternoon nap now that they had recovered so much. Then again, it was hard to think they were both sleeping in her arms and had sent her to reckon with the man who'd most unfortunately sired her.

She ensured Ghost was positioned well, though her sibling seemed content enough to be asleep at all, like they would hardly care even if she dangled them upside down for the full walk.

As they walked, she found herself holding her sibling closer, more securely. They were still siblings, right? If she no longer considered the Pale King her father, and they were only related to her in his side...

Maybe they didn't know. Maybe they could leave that be. She doubted anything could stop Hollow and Ghost from calling her sister, and now that she had them (had them back), she did not wish to stop calling them sibling. She would keep them, she decided. They would be family.

Hollow straightened up just as Hornet felt the first hints of the hot spring's warm mist against her face. Ghost stirred, shifting in her arms, rubbing the edge of their eye. They repositioned so their arms looped lazily around her neck. She patted their back, and they snuggled closer.

Hmh. She could at least be a better sibling than the Pale King was a father. He'd never been one for physical contact. Certainly not in the way Ghost was, or that Hollow could be, when they sought people out or let others cuddle with them.

“Hollow, dear.” Ah, Midwife was in the spring already. Hornet's stomach knotted; she wasn't sure if she was ready to face her caretaker, to hear what she had to say about everything in the White Palace. The only comfort came from knowing the other two could not tell her about it. What would she do, to hear of the Pale King being found alive? To hear that he was hardly even a sire to her, certainly not a father? Not any more. Not that he had done well at all acting like it.

On the other hand, she'd rather admit everything to her caretaker than to Hollow. They'd not treated her any differently, they could not have known the truth. They had to have tried, she knew, to reconcile with him. She did not know why. There were other people here, better ones, surely. Why did they so wish to get some scrap of affection from him?

“Ah, there you two are. Did the little one fall asleep?” Midwife leaned in as Hollow stepped aside, squinting to try and get a better view of the two other siblings.

Hornet nodded. While Hollow eased into the spring, she set Ghost down on the bench, draping their arm over their eyes. It didn't cover them, not like Hollow could do, but it was somewhat less unnerving than having them staring out blankly.

She set her needle down and shed her cloak, draping it over the arm of the bench. Midwife made room for her as she approached, her coils separating out a small pool right in front of her. Granted, there had to be a few of those in the spring. She often did that when she brought her horde of younger charges to the spring, breaking them up so there were not as many fights, so those who were stressed or overwhelmed could be alone.

Scrubbing herself clean from head to toe was an efficient, mindless activity. By now she understood what a wound or other potential issue felt like. Unlike Ghost (or, presumably, Hollow, if they could heal with Soul) she hardly had to focus to heal anything, not that she found anything more serious than tiny nicks and cuts. Time spent bleeding and hurt was unacceptable in old Hallownest, and cleanliness could be a matter of life and death. Old habits died hard. She could take the time to soak later.

Though... it had been a rough day. Her heart still felt raw, and while it was not something Soul could mend, the warm water and the presence of her siblings and caretaker could at least serve as a salve.

She finished her scrubbing and sat down in the water, letting it wash over her and cover her legs and abdomen in dense warmth. Relax. She just had to relax.

She forced herself to sink in, to scoot forward and lean back-

She jolted, shaking herself and flicking her wings so fast they almost buzzed despite themselves. Heaviness, dampness, a strange feeling alien to all her experiences, gripped her back and throat.

“Is something wrong, dear?” Midwife asked, stopping her own preening to snap her mask back into place and watch her charge.

With an angry hiss, Hornet lowered herself again, deliberate this time, focusing on when the sensation went wrong. Her wingtips hit the water and she shuddered, her stomach dropping as she pushed them in past the surface and the discomfort rose again. All she wanted to do was take a bath. Had that been taken from her, too? “I'm fine, Midwife,” she said, voice barely rising. “I simply forgot about my wings, it's no matter.”

“Are you sure? That was- hmm?” While Hornet tried to force her nerves to settle, Midwife turned to Hollow, who'd tapped her on the back. They gestured, something involving their fingers spread wide, sweeping up from their head in an all-too-familiar pattern...

Midwife cocked her head, curving much of her upper body with it. “Your father?” she guessed, and the words stung like a punch.

They nodded, then fluttered their hand, splashed it into the water, violently shook it off.

Midwife's hum of understanding vibrated through her body, and Hornet sunk deeper until the water was to her chin; what did it matter now that she was all submerged?

“Ahh, he didn't like getting his wings wet, either?” She sighed, thanked them, and turned back to Hornet. “Perhaps we will have to ask the City folk about it. They're flying about in that rain all the time, they must know what to do. But for now, I want to take a look at those.”

“Midwife!” Hornet's protest did not stop her caretaker from flipping her onto her stomach and prodding at her wings, getting closer so she could see them better.

“What's wrong?” Midwife whispered, warm and concerned. Her examination was cursory, made to look more complex to draw out the excuse to talk.

“I don't- I just-” Hornet spat out the water that filled her mouth and sat up on her knees, flicking her wings dry again. “Hollow...”

“Why don't you come with me to my den?”

At once, Hornet dreaded the thought and breathed a small sigh of relief. A perfect space to talk openly about her feelings – but she had to talk openly about her feelings. And Midwife wouldn't take evasion for an answer.

Midwife declared she would be taking Hornet to go talk to the City bugs. After a moment to confirm that Hollow would either stay with Ghost or they could all agree that Ghost was perfectly fine if they were asleep on the bench, Hornet found herself being herded out of the spring and towards the den with hardly enough time to put her cloak back on. On top of that, Midwife was back to singing, all the sorts of little ditties she sang to keep the children occupied as she got them from place to place. She did spear a dirtcarver that sprung up and gave it to Midwife, but it did not spare her for long.

Now that she was (mostly) grown, it felt like a much shorter walk from the hot spring to Midwife's den. It really was strange to see the place so empty; all the sounds of children playing and chatting, some spider in for a consultation, the chirping of small spiderlings, the scent of whatever snack had just been passed out, all the wobbly and uncertain webs, were gone. But Hornet saw tools sorted back into their place after they'd been cleaned, a few bowls left out, a lingering herbaceous quality telling of some remedy or another Midwife made on the spot.

Midwife did not hide away in her tunnel. Instead, she looped around Hornet, seating the princess on her side, legs entangled with hers so she didn't fall back. (As if she would fall back.)

“Now, what's wrong, dear?” Midwife's voice felt like forgotten nights cuddled in her mother's arms, crying from a tummyache or nightmare or other small afflicting. It felt like the tears being wiped from her cheeks, the warmth of a body against hers and the security of an embrace.

“It's complicated, I-” Tears welled, making her words wobble. Hornet pressed the heel of her hand to her eye, willing them to dry. “It takes some- some explaining, and I've been- I've been _crying_ too much.”

“You never cry too much, Hornet.” Midwife curled in and nuzzled her, pushing her hand away so she grabbed the edges of her mask instead. “I know you've seen many tragedies. It's an awful lot for one person, and for it to start when you were a little girl. I couldn't tell you how much pain and heartache has come to my den, let alone what I have seen outside it. I've watched parents and children die when I couldn't do anything more for them. I've been people's only support in the world during some of the most trying times of their lives. I watched you grow up, dear, and I will never forget the sound of you crying til you were hoarse, or how you screamed when taken from your mother's side. Don't think she never cried, either. I've been there for that, too.”

Her mother. Right. The ice shock drenched Hornet's spine again, and she found it in herself to ask, “Did she actually miscarry?”

“She- how did you know?” Midwife hummed. Hornet had never heard the story before, and the confirmation was almost worse than what her caretaker said after. “She did. Many times. On the rare occasions she and the old sire managed to conceive, she lost them in short order. She tore up the nursery once, such was all her pain, frustration, and exhaustion. The sire found her among all the shreds of webbing, scattered clothes and furniture, even splinters of wood she scratched from the walls. When your father-”

Hornet jolted, anger spearing her upright, and Midwife clucked and whispered soft hushes until she calmed. After several long, silent moments, she began again.

“When the Pale King and your mother made their bargain, she could only hope that _this_ hybrid would take. It didn't, not the first time. Whatever it was that happened, it almost killed her. She had to dictate the news to one of the Weavers from her bed because she did not have it in her to write. She hardly had any time to recover before she was pregnant again, despite my warnings.”

“Did she lose that one, too?” Hornet asked, uncertain whether she wanted to know the answer.

“She laid one egg, and you hatched from it. She was fond of you from the start, but one day you learned to laugh and oh, to hear her talk about her most wonderful and perfect child then! She was smitten. She used to laugh when she heard about your escape attempts, you know. I know she was stern to you, but her child name was Keen Little Beast and she didn't earn that for nothing, she knew your side of the matter.”

Hornet nodded, and took a deep breath, using the edge of her cloak to dry her tears away. How different her life would be, to have been born to her mother's husband. They'd likely still be around – her mother, at least.

She'd still not have a father.

She wouldn't have Hollow or Ghost for siblings, either. Nor any of the shades in the Abyss, though she had never known them as anything more than spirits haunting a grave. Perhaps she would have other siblings, and she'd not care for The Hollow Knight nor any lost Vessels who wandered about. She would have some siblings, certainly. Spiders, all of them. Perhaps she wouldn't even be the one declared princess.

(Maybe that would have been nice, to not have all this weight bearing down on her.)

“Is that what was wrong?” Midwife asked, stroking Hornet's cheek with one limb, cradling her face with another. “Where did you hear about that?”

She shook her head. The shock of it would fade, this history she'd never known. And though the story of it had captured her, now she was left to grapple both it and much more recent actions. Her breath hitched, and while she paused to ease it, her voice still shook and her mouth felt numb as she spoke, “I found him.”

Midwife drew closer, her mask almost touching the top of Hornet's head. She inspected her charge again, limbs tapping all over in search for some potential injury, or some physical explanation for this apparent unreality overcoming the princess. “Who? Your father?”

She shook her head, and the numbness spread to her jaw, her cheeks, all down her face. “He's not my father any more.”

A sharp, yet quiet, gasp cut through the air between them. “Hornet, what happened? How?”

“I- He-” Hornet took a breath, her chelicerae working away.

And she explained. She did so to the best of her ability; Ghost's strange device, the kingsmould lying broken outside the Palace ruins, the twisted machinations of what her second home had become. Above all, finding her room. Finding the Pale King. Everything he said. Everything about his family, his past, about the idea she could be a god, even half-mortal as she was. What she said back.

She tiptoed around it, the moment he was no longer her father. Said they had left on a disagreement, that she'd still been upset, that he was likely some fragment of her imagination anyhow, brought to life by strange magics.

But Midwife had seen drama upon family drama. “And so you disowned him.”

Hornet could not do anything but nod. She had. She had thought of this day before, too. Fantasized about it, even. Watching him lose his family like he had made her do. Hearing him beg for her to come back like she had begged her mother to wake. Turning his back on him. Undoable, like the seals on the Temple chamber.

Yet now she found her vindication, this righteous revenge, burning low, and all she wanted to do was get some sleep. Maybe she would let Hollow and Ghost cuddle with her again. Hollow likely needed the support, too. She did not know what they were hiding being their stoic facade, but they had returned to the waking realm too readily, adjusted too easily. Surely something was going on, right?

“Oh, my dear,” Midwife said with a sigh. She stroked Hornet's head, short motions drawing up her horns.

“Of all the families you've been involved with,” Hornet cut off the crackle in her voice with a bitter laugh. She leaned into her caretaker's touch, familiar and friendly. “I apologize for mine being so difficult.”

Midwife scoffed softly. “It's hardly your fault. You brash and stubborn thing, you.” She held Hornet's cheeks and wiggled her head all around like she was a hatchling, laughing and letting her go when she protested. “Your mother may be a queen, your sire a god, and your siblings... I've not a clue how to describe them. But you're far from the only orphan, the only one to lose your mother so young, for your sire to be so distant, nor the only one to disown a parent. I can't even say everything with the White Lady was new territory, though the amicability was pleasant. Don't give me that look. I held you when you were still dripping wet from your egg. You're not some mysterious, unknowable thing, Hornet. You're as much a person as we all keep telling your sibling they are.”

“I _know_ that,” she shot back. The only thing keeping her from flaring her cloak – besides Midwife not being startled by threat displays from her charges – was that she was currently sitting and could not get up without falling into the tangle of Midwife's legs and coils.

“Do you?” Midwife went back to stroking her head.

She went quiet. What did she say? Princess, protector, not just of Hallownest but her siblings, now, and of the survivors, of those new eggs that would hatch into a world she wished she did not recognize. (But, perhaps, all along, being free and wild had been so much better than living in a palace and handling nobility, either from Hallownest or Deepnest.) Those sorts of positions indicated there was a person behind the work; it was not as if one of the Weaver puppets or a kingsmould could do the most standard of bureaucratic work, let alone what she had to do. She had to be a person, she could do that kind of work.

The depths of her mind dredged up what she'd been pushing into them. Was that what they had been trying to communicate with Hollow? She pushed the thought down again. That was something for later. Something for not having to rebuild. She still had to tell the White Lady about the ideas for agriculture. (Should she tell her...? Would she care? Would it hurt her, for Hornet to know but not her?)

“I'm tired,” she said at last. She curled her fingers around the limb Midwife so helpfully provided, sighing. “I want to be done with him. Yet he's everywhere, and he will not even die properly.”

“No, gods aren't all that great at dying. How else do you think your sibling made it?” Midwife's hum grew absentminded as she shifted to stick her face back in her tunnel, looking around. “I cannot do a thing about him, but surely we can find something to help with the past... Have you a plan for your mother's shrine yet?”

Her face went cold, her eyes wide. “Oh.”

She had never done anything, not anything official. She had accepted the thought of the plinth becoming her shrine long ago, with only the rare wavering doubt and reconsideration. She had thought her siblings would coexist with it, but there were ceremonies, rituals to observe to make a permanent place for the spirit, to serve as the place where one could communicate with them. Spots of blood and a thread from her cloak to ask for permission to use some sheets did not a shrine make.

Of all the things she had put off, even Ghost's funeral-turned-reawakening, how could she have left that one? Midwife could complain to her about not taking care of herself in time to molt all she wanted, but Hornet had put her own mother to the side. After everything Herrah did for her, for Deepnest, for Hallownest, the kingdom that was not her own.

(But Herrah had abandoned her, too, in a way. Unlike her sire, though, Herrah was truly gone, no god-strength to bind her to life.)

She pushed against Midwife's side, but the centipede did not release her so easily. “I have to go,” she said, “I have to make up for-”

“Make up for rebuilding two kingdoms and caring for your siblings? Herrah was a queen, she is accustomed to the duties of leadership. Sit here and plan this with me, dear, at least an initial pass on what we'll do. Calm your heart, let it listen to love, that's what will honor your mother.” Midwife turned to smile at her – mask slid away, all beady eyes and gnashing teeth and the comforting familiarity of Deepnest – and said, “I can practically hear it pounding from here. Can't imagine what it's doing for you like that.”

The limbs holding her steady released, and Hornet slid down Midwife's coils, landing moments before Midwife drew her upper body out of the tunnel, holding silk sheets, a pen and ink, and thread for Weaverspeak. By the blood in her veins, how long had it been since she used Weaverspeak? She understood it, of course, but by the time she was making more complex, more delicate projects and could handle fine motor skills like her full-spider peers had been able to for ages, she spent most of her time away from Deepnest anyways.

She would try it again anyways. She drew a length of thread, carefully winding it between her fingers in the proper way. A few testing knots found her handiwork marginally neater than when she had dropped the skill; perhaps she could improve at it after all.

“Right, now,” Midwife said, “Let's get some ideas down, and then we can see how your siblings are doing, see what they think, hmm?”

Hornet nodded. She could at least lay one of the dead to rest.


	56. To Say Goodbye

The effort took weeks, and it was not quite complete. The plans they had drawn up were more complex than what they had managed, scrounging what they could, but necessities came first and Hornet would rather not see any of the artisans and crafters busying themselves with a big, complex project like this when she could make do for now until the world shifted into something more stable than survival.

The rearrangements had proven rather serendipitous, though. They had cleared out one of the guest reception spaces, and before it was even emptied there were sheets and bedding piling up in it.

Originally, it had been Hollow and Midwife moving the heavier furniture with Ghost as guidance while Hornet took down her mother's old bed, more similar to a hammock than anything Hallownest used, and set it up again in the reception space. Then Weft dropped by to help (Hornet suspected Midwife's involvement), repairing a few thinned threads and other small damages to the bed, and using Weaver silk to reinforce the connection points Hornet had already installed in the walls. The next week, Ghost ran in with Mato close behind. When he wasn't moving furniture and otherwise redecorating, he insisted that he could handle sustenance issues and that Hornet ought to take her time to go check in on the City denizens.

It felt strange, leaving Deepnest with her mother's shrine underway. The entire time, it was as if there was a thread around her waist, tying her back to the den, and all she could think of was going back home.

It ached, being away, when she took a small delegation into the Queen's Gardens to negotiate for agricultural space. Her stomach and mind churning did not help; what if the White Lady did not wish to be found by mortal bugs? What if she got territorial, and scorned Hornet for seeking her land when the entirety of Hallownest and Deepnest were left to her and her generation?

Yet she took the delegation to the Lady's hideaway, ushering them past Dryya's corpse.

“White Lady,” she said, standing before the giant Root, who sat at attention even if her eyes remained unfocused without her kin nearby, “I come to ask for your assistance in times of need. The people must feed themselves, and-”

The White Lady nodded, as much as she could. “The land here is fertile, yet overgrown. Tend to it, and you may use what you need.”

The bugs stammered their thanks, enthralled in the presence of a god. A true god, a proper god, unlike Hornet herself. It was comfort, small as it may have been, to see how they reacted to a real god.

One dared to pipe up, ask questions about the soil and the plant life already living there. The White Lady answered easily, shifting forwards as she conversed with the new horticulturist. She dismissed the rest, and soon Hornet found herself staring at Dryya again, this time not with her siblings but with the other bugs standing around, muttering to each other. Plans, plans all too like her own. A grave, a memorial of some sort, perhaps, for this fallen knight.

She ducked back in, as the day began to grow longer, to fetch the horticulturist. They apologized for taking up so much time, scurrying out to meet with the rest.

“White Lady- Stepmother, did Dryya have any wishes on what would be done with her body?” Hornet asked, as the horticulturist retreated out of earshot.

With a sigh, the White Lady said, “None I was made aware of. Perhaps to be buried with her family, if they remained here.”

Hornet frowned; they likely had not. She had only a fuzzy recollection of Dryya's family – a sister, a brother-in-law, and a small horde of nieces. They had been kind, though the nieces, a little older than Hornet, had been shy and perhaps a little cliquish. Had they all fallen to the infection? Did they remain hidden deeper within Hallownest? Or had they left? They could be generations removed by now, Dryya's sister the ancestor to grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and onwards, Hallownest little more than a family legend.

She stilled, before she could leave, her frown deepening and her hand hesitating on the doorway.

The White Lady must have noticed this, for she asked, “Is there something more you seek?”

...Should she tell?

He was her husband, after all. They had loved each other. (Somehow.)

Perhaps she had grieved him already, and to open the wound again would do no good. Or perhaps she spoke kind words of him but hated him, secretly, and the petty part of her almost wished it was so. Perhaps saying he was alive but they were separated so deeply would bring more pain than letting him stay dead was.

“Thank you, Stepmother, for granting us space to grow and thrive.” She breathed the words, its own relief and its own weight.

“Of course. Your father and I's people shall always matter to me, even if the time has come to cede to new gods.” She did not, could not see Hornet's wince. “I thank you for caring for them. Let us meet again.”

“I'll try to bring my siblings next time,” Hornet said, and she left, the words leaving her mouth thick and numb, as if she had been given medicine to alleviate a sore throat or a cough. Had it truly been so simple? To get permission for use of the land, to ask about Dryya, to leave so much unspoken?

She accompanied the delegation home in a daze, after spending some time with them examining the gardens and debating what may work to clear the thorns.

Maybe she would send Ghost up to help.

Or maybe that would cause a second godly war, this time between mother and child.

Though she could not provide any certain answers to their questions and hypotheses, they seemed satisfied to try on their own, or perhaps, as one of them suggested, to visit the Teacher's Archives and see what Monomon in all her intellect had to say.

Maybe she needed Quirrel more than Ghost here.

At least she had comfortable, physical work to attend to at home. She let the City bugs exit through the Fog Canyon, warning them again to leave the mantises be, and sought out the drop into Deepnest.

She darted through the tunnels, leaped above pits filled with spikes and biting creatures, avoided the garpedes (one of which, she noted, bore some deep wounds, its tunnel scented metallic with blood), and at last climbed her way up through the village. Home called, stronger than it ever had.

Her limbs buzzed as she entered the den. She heard chatter, muffled, but even that had to mean it was loud and boisterous at its source. Surely Midwife, Weft, and Mato were not making that much noise on their own. All right, perhaps Midwife and Mato.

She followed the noise to the shrine and froze. Warm light filled it, the air heady with beeswax. Silken lines, restored to their proper glory, made small glimmers along the walls and ceiling. The ripped up tapestries bearing Herrah's seal had been taken down weeks ago, and now that she noticed it she heard the shuffle of someone weaving under the noise.

But more than the noise, more than the light and silk, was the people. Hollow sat primly on a couch and sewed, Ghost in their lap. Quirrel sat beside them, and Cornifer next to him, chatting as they gazed about the room, the glimmers reflecting in their eyes. Midwife curled around the seat, calling out instructions to Iselda, who balanced precariously on a silken sling while she tried to hang up one of the tapestries. It had been redyed, and Hornet could see the color difference where fresh, bright silk bordered the now shorter tapestry, but more than that, it was fixed. The six slashes stood out, intense, fierce, against a maroon background. Weft sat nearby, busily finishing repairs on the second one, absorbed by the work.

And was that Mato in the back, debating over something? No, Sheo. He even had a small spot of paint on his cheek somehow. Where was Mato? Did he know Sheo was here?

Hollow raised their head, staring right at her. Ghost followed suit, hopping off them and pattering towards her. They tugged on her hand, pulling her into the room as if she could not walk there herself.

The seating formed a rough circle, the plinth completing it. As if Herrah were there, given her permanent place in the conversation, in whatever may happen in this room. The cabinets had been emptied of sheets, and while not all of the shelves were filled, they now displayed small projects, letters, random knickknacks. A tiny cloak, one fit for the smallest of children, now used to dress a doll in place of a proper dress form or shadow box, stood beside the incomplete one, its threads trailing like spirits from where it hung down to the floor.

A fresh sheet covered the plinth itself, a candle sitting on each corner. Someone had put honey candies in a line on it, leaving a conspicuous gap in the middle.

Ghost pushed her into Hollow's lap and her bigger sibling held her steady, as if they didn't trust her on her own two feet.

“How do you like it, dear?” Midwife asked, nudging her leg in greeting before calling out to Iselda to move a bit to the left.

“It's-” Unable to think of anything else to say, she turned to Ghost and said, “We need to talk about the guest policy.”

The incredulous look they gave her sent her bursting into a fit of giggles. Ghost hopped up to pat her cheek, and Hollow hugged the both of them to their stomach, tapping the point of their mask to Hornet's head.

“Are you all right?” Cornifer and Quirrel asked, blinking and looking at each other in surprised unison, just the same as they had spoken.

She nodded, unable to clear the smile from her face. Sheo, then Iselda, then Weft, all called out to greet her now that they knew she was around, and she waved back, all words caught up in her throat. They'd done all this. They must have gathered everyone and gotten to it as soon as she was away, and worked the entire time she was with the delegation. All while she was with the White Lady, her and Dryya and everything else that came with old Hallownest, they had been here.

Ghost pulled something from their pocket (or wherever they stored their things) and began fiddling with it. Hornet peered over their head, sweeping her gaze around the room again. The tapestries, the candles, the entire altar really, the cabinet. The people.

How long had she been alone?

And how dearly, how fiercely, she held onto the feeling that replaced it.

Hollow nuzzled her again, but she did not cry. Something, she had to do something, she needed to-

“Brother?”

Mato stood in the doorway, flanked by two Devout.

Sheo sat back, looking up to meet his gaze.

Without another word Mato rushed in, sheathing his greatnail. Hornet sat up on the arm of the couch to watch as he swept Sheo into a hug, as hearty and solid as a fortress.

Slowly, Sheo hugged him back, patting his back with a gasping laugh. “Mato,” he said, the air being squeezed from him, “How have you been?”

Mato loosened his grip to look his brother in the eye again. “How have _I_ been? _You_ never told me you had a partner?”

Sheo's laugh, now less air-deprived, grew bashful. “Ah, yes, you should come back with me, you can meet Lias. If you would like. I warn you, I have sought paths other than the way of the nail.”

“Hornet told me. What is it that you're working on? That? That's incredible, Sheo! You have to show me how you do it.”

Midwife tapped her knee, and Hornet, rolling her eyes, called out, “Hello, Mato.”

He fell over from where he had been crouching to examine Sheo's painting, whirled around, blinked, and called back, “Hello, Hornet! Apologies. I, ah-” He gestured towards his brother.

She nodded. She understood.

Something warm bumped the back of her head and she jolted.

“ _Mrrew.”_

She turned to find blazing scarlet, and her expression softened. She reached up to scratch Grimmchild between the horns; they rumbled and pressed into the touch. “Hello to you, too.”

The Devout – Rayah and Leed, she'd not seen them much outside the springs – approached, slashing their claws in greeting and, when Hornet returned the gesture, Rayah began speaking to Midwife, Leed listening intently. Something about what they could do. But there wasn't really anything left to do, no, it had been taken care of.

The activity settled, as Weft finished the second tapestry, Iselda hung it, and Sheo finished his artwork. It became more conversation than work, the Hallownest and Deepnest bugs tentatively reaching out to speak with each other, Midwife and Hornet taking the lead to introduce everyone. Grimmchild curled up, squeezed between Hollow and Quirrel. The brothers came over, Sheo taking one of the other chairs while Mato leaned over it. Iselda sat, too, laughing and waving to Cornifer. Weft didn't go much of anywhere, saying they were comfortable as-is.

“Well,” Hornet said at last. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before she pushed off the couch. “We should get started, we've not yet made a proper shrine.”

She approached the altar, head swimming with what she could say. The proper way was not prepared speeches, as nobility did; it left her plenty of leeway and kept her from needing to spend more of her time writing something, but at the same time, speeches were not her strong suit.

“ _Wait!”_

Midwife grabbed her cloak and dragged her back, passing the task on from leg to leg as she reared up. When she spoke, her voice boomed even in the silk-insulated space, like she had only needed to meet Grimm once and that was all the acting experience she would ever need. “It's not complete yet. Hornet, dear, no child knows their parent for the entirety of the latter's life, there's always a time before them. This is something from that time, but I think it's best for you to place it.”

She produced two somethings, half-circles, from a web high on the ceiling. She brought herself back down, pressing the two pieces into Hornet's hands.

“Why the ceiling...?” Hornet asked, not yet ready to look down.

Midwife patted her cheek. “Because I had a plan, dear. Now go on, put it in its spot.”

Her eyes fell, and met six angled slashes.

Two halves of a mask. The same dimensions, the same eye placement, as the one she remembered. They were worn, cuts jagging deep in some places, but they seemed in good condition still. There was a strength about them, as if the gaze that had looked out from behind it had been so steely the mask had absorbed the very essence of it.

Her mother's, a fragment from when she was Herrah the Beast, not yet Herrah the Dreamer.

She had never seen such a thing as a child. Nor had she questioned the difference between Herrah's mask and that of others; Herrah was queen, things were different sometimes. That's how life was.

She turned. She took the walk to the altar one step at a time, as if the mask could be at all fragile. She set the halves down in the center with the same reverence she carried them with, stepping back with an exhale.

Her mother's altar, her shrine, was complete.

The second of the den, and Hornet could not say it would be the last.

Midwife gathered everyone around the altar, finding them each a place. Hollow and Ghost stood to Hornet's side, Midwife on her other. All gazed at the mask in silence. Bugs from Deepnest, Hallownest, beyond, all gathered together. Here to celebrate the life of a spider who had once been dismissed as a beast, and who later took the name as a call to arms.

Hornet resisted the urge to scrunch the altar fabric in her hands, pressing them flat.

“Herrah,” Midwife said at last, “It's been some time, hasn't it? Your girl's growing up into someone I think you'd be most proud of. Deepnest and Hallownest have taken a heavy blow, but here we are. Stubborn, aren't we all? And you in particular, though we all knew that.

“I know this shrine is hardly a traditional setup, but excuse us for thinking you'd much rather have it this way. You've been laughing in the face of expectations since you hatched, I am certain, and after everything you, I, and Deepnest have gone through, all the ups and downs and sideways things, I am glad to have been there to watch as you defied even more. You always thanked me for my service, and I do appreciate that, do not get me wrong, but ought I to thank you, too, for sharing your most vulnerable moments with me?

“I don't think you were right in everything, but nobody is. I will say that I think, in the long term, everything will be all right. I've got hope in what you've left us, and to my last breath I shall be proud to call you my friend. Welcome home.”

She nudged Cornifer, standing beside her. He stammered, gestured to himself, and when she nodded, he paused for a moment before gesturing to Iselda, too.

“Yes, everyone goes, and you can take a turn together. Just make it up as you go, it's all right,” Midwife confirmed.

Cornifer took a deep breath, brushing his antennae back. “I, well, hmm. I dare say I never met you, Herrah. I don't know much about you, either, honestly. I've met your daughter, and she's a fine young woman, very smart and skilled. Though, ah, it sounds like those aren't the only traits she must have gotten from you.”

“We're glad to have met her,” Iselda said, cutting in when her husband's voice faded, “And her siblings. And everyone else we've met as a result of meeting them. We did meet Ghost first, though. That's the short one. I can promise you they're all being looked out for. You may be gone, or, at least gone from the living, but they're not alone.”

As they went quiet, Midwife nudged them again.

“Welcome home?” they tried, to her satisfaction.

Weft, beside them, spoke next, “My queen, we've been so long and so short without you, with the stasis. The people have gone to an ancestral home. Yet some of us, we stay. For you, for the princess, for the future. I'm not certain what they expect to find there. Maybe we'll never know. Who can say how long they have been gone, in lands beyond Hallownest?

“Whatever they seek there, we know you are here. And I thank you, for your leadership, for being the mortal who could withstand gods. Welcome home.”

Quirrel sucked in a breath and scratched under his bandanna. “Well, Herrah, I cannot say I didn't know you, but I cannot say I knew you well or for long, either.

“You intimidated me, you know. When we met. The stories I'd heard of you were plenty to inspire awe and trepidation, and when I found they were true?” He laughed. “I wasn't sure what I had gotten myself into, or what Monomon had gotten into, by agreeing to tutor your daughter. For all that, though, I am glad I got to know you what little I did. Or must have. My memory's been piecemeal in returning to me, but you've left a strong impression on what I did get back. Quite impressive, and you should have heard Lemm's reaction when I suddenly began babbling about you over tea!

“Though... If you're still with Monomon, wherever you are, could you please tell her I said hello? All of you, all three of you, are dearly missed. But. Well. Welcome home.”

There was a pause while Rayah dried her eyes behind her mask, Leed pressed into her side, presumably doing the same. When she spoke, her voice wobbled and threatened to break. “My lady, my queen, we really do miss you. And I promise we'll be helping the princess as much as we can. That moth, she really did rip right through us, I'm sorry we couldn't hold out longer. All we wanted was to protect you, and protect the nest.

“I'm not much one for words, and Leed sure isn't, either, but I hope you'll still take us as your people. Welcome home.”

Mato gave the Devout a moment to steady themselves, hesitating but in the end deciding not to try patting either on their vulnerable backs. He shuffled, eyes lowered, studying the mask. “I'm another unfamiliar one, Queen Herrah. I guess we would be contemporaries, sort of. It's strange to think about. It's all been a long time and hardly any time at all.

“I'm here because I know the siblings, and I want to say, like Cornifer and Iselda said, there's people here with them. We're going to get better. It's a process, but we'll take it head-on. Even if there's some molts that have to be steamed off along the way. Welcome home.”

Sheo smiled slightly at the quiet chuckle going around those who had been there for Hornet's molt. “Herrah, then. Herrah, my brother and I, we don't know you. I just met your daughter once. But Mato, he decided Ghost is his, so the others are his, and I'm his brother, and...” He made small circles with his hand. “Family, you know? What connections there are to find. Welcome home.”

Grimmchild, for their part, huffed an ember and cackled.

Then it was Ghost. They hesitated, looked up, all around at everyone else, then stared down at the altar. They stroked the cloth, slow and sorrowful. Apologetic, even. What they had done. What they had needed to do. How strange, for one's killer to stand by their shrine. How fitting, in its own way.

They gave the altar one last, hearty pat before looking up to Hollow.

They had to back up to kneel, to rest their head on the altar. All remained silent while they sat there, having their wordless commune with the dead. They had been inextricably tied into her history, into Deepnest's history, and in exchange she imprisoned them. Yet, perhaps, she could have called them family, too.

They stood, after a time, and reached across their body to squeeze Hornet's hand.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Listen. Speak as needed. But listen. Focus.

“Herrah-” Her voice choked.

“Mother...” That felt better.

“Mama,” the word was out of her mouth before she could realize she said it. “I cannot say the world has been kind. Perhaps not just, either, but you did not teach me the world would be kind and just. You taught me to make it that way.

“I did not do that. Not at first.” She stroked the altar cloth. “The world shaped me into a needle, sharper even than the one you gifted me, the one I wield to this day.” As she spoke, the weapon seemed to weigh heavier on her back. “Yet now I find a world that needs a plow more than a needle, an outstretched hand rather than a waiting claw. And I find I must look back to you to understand how to be those things,

“I've missed you so much, every day. Even when I do not think I do, I have missed you. I want to remember you, to preserve you in that way. But it's going away, Mama, and some day what I have of you will be your lessons and this shrine.

“Please, as my ancestor, guide me to use them right. Let me learn, and do better. We build off of the foundation you made, as you built on what those before you made.” Whispers of stolen children, of people forced from their homes in the hopes of finding something, anything that was better, of a system designed to separate and subjugate, gripped her heart. “There is so much to fix. There is so much work to do. It will be the greatest effort to make better even half of the wrongs that have been passed down. But we are trying. Lend us your guidance to make a world you would be proud of. Welcome home.

“And Mama...” She closed her eyes.

“My name is Hornet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is just about the end! I'm writing up an epilogue, no guarantee when that will be done, or how long it'll be. I thought I had a bit more to go but nope, I got to that last line and was like... it's done. There we go. I apologize if it seems short or odd or like I didn't get the time to wrap up all the emotional stuff. Currently this is the third longest fanfic in HK's AO3 tag, not counting crossovers. I need a nap.
> 
> I suppose I do have other projects to do.
> 
> I'll see you with the epilogue!


	57. To See It Through

She stayed up much too late, after everyone had left. She was not sure why she could not sleep; she had eaten dinner just fine, late as it had been, and there had been plenty going on to tire her out. Yet she found herself sitting out on the balcony, having shed her cloak and wrapped herself in a blanket instead, leaving her winglets exposed to the air.

She tried to flutter and rearrange them, getting little movement. Instead a sinking feeling overwhelmed her, some imagined sensation of a ghastly creature like the corpse in the Kingdom's Edge bursting from her back, radial mouthparts dripping with venom, full-fledged wings unfurling in pale rainbow gossamer.

With everything going on, she had given herself little time to think to that incident all those weeks ago. Even now, the edges of the memories faded and fluxed like the dream it might have been. But the words were so clear, the emotions so strong.

But right now, if someone had given her the chance to drain the blood from her veins and fill it with someone, anyone else's, she would have taken it.

Her head bowed with guilt at the thought. She was her mother's child, too. She was not a half-monster, she was half-Beast as well. She had just built a shrine to her, this woman who had, really, been far more powerful than her unfortunate sire had.

She focused on it, pushing past the alien feeling writhing beneath her carapace, begging to burst free. She would honor her mother. She would work to be a kind and strong leader. Even if, maybe, she had to work on some of those key things. A lot.

It... it really was not only those who had been injured by the infection who had to work through its consequences for themselves.

She grew up learning to be sharp, harsh, ruthless. To spill blood and not second-guess it. To lash her wounds and keep moving, because to go still, to give yourself a chance to take a breath and think, was to die, one way or another. She could not trust godsblood or the little dark stains that formed where she bled to fend the Old Light off. Anything could be deadly. Anything could be taken from her at a moment's notice. She was not wounded by the infection, no. She was one of the infection's wounds, open and raw.

Even if she pondered it, who she would be if there were no infection, no reason to seal her family away and test the rest at her needle's point, she knew the logical answer. She would not be. What else could have led to her? Very little, she knew. Even if she did exist, what would bring about her siblings?

The very concept of her was mired in war and suffering.

Yet she knew, oh she knew, how badly she had to grow beyond it.

It was just...

How?

Accepting a hug here, laughing at someone's antics there, stopping by Cornifer and Iselda's place for tea... Did that even add up? What if she remained Hornet-Protector, Hornet-Sentinel, Hornet-Princess? Harsh, stern, cruel, even? Would she end up like Dryya, dead and collapsed, a relic of a forgotten age?

Funny. The Pale King and The White Lady, even having both survived, were trapped in their own prisons due to their involvement, the things they did in Hallownest's name. Dryya, who had been just as sharp and hard-edged as Hornet had become, was gone. She knew Ze'mer had disappeared after her love's death, and suspected Isma was in her grove. She knew Hegemol's armor had been stolen, but never heard what the Knight himself was up to.

It was just boisterous, cheerful Ogrim left. He had taken to helping in the City just fine.

Ghost existed, empty but not and childish but...

She'd rather not dwell on it.

Hollow was there, ragged but they still had far more patience than she could ever manage. They were learning. They'd welcomed the chance to become soft, to fuss over her and Ghost and now to tend to new parents and hatchlings.

She jerked upright at the sound of footsteps, reached for a needle that wasn't there. Hollow did not care, they merely sat behind her, long legs joining hers in dangling off the balcony. With a puff of breath, they leaned down, resting their chin on her forehead.

“Hi, Hollow,” she whispered, as if this were a child's sleepover and it was much later at night, well after all the rest had gone to sleep. “Is the new room to your and Ghost's liking?”

They nodded; it was not much movement, but her head dipped with theirs all the same. Their room was a little further to Hornet's than the new main room was; Herrah had kept her daughter safe and tucked away, deep in the den.

“Good. If either of you need more blankets or pillows or anything, we can find the material to make some more. Mother kept a lot of supplies in her craft room.” Hornet hummed. “I suppose she thought I would follow her suit. Though you seem to be taking the role on better than I – my handiwork is far too practical, there's none of the decoration to it that she always included. I'm sure if you did wish to take up embroidery and weaving, Midwife and Weft would teach you what they know.” She'd not met a Weaver who didn't share their knowledge when asked, and some shared without even that. Not about all the mundane stitches and techniques, anyways. The spells weren't shared with outsiders – not until they'd agreed to seal their queen away.

They had tried, politely yet insistently, to get her to pick up the skills. Yet Hornet, her silk a whirlwind and her fingers clumsy on the loom, had found far more success with metal and bolts. She improved, over the years. Learning how to piece machines together helped steady her hands and understand the engineering of a piece of cloth.

Her eyes fell to them, those hands, split into the wrong fingers, made for the wrong things. She balled them up, clenched them tight, and when Hollow took them both in their hand, big and steady and comforting, she sighed, and leaned back into their abdomen.

“What would I do without you?” she asked. “Or Ghost?”

They nuzzled her head, and she looked up, unable to see their eyes but knowing they listened nonetheless. “I'm not a social thing, Hollow. I'm quite bad at it, really. You ought to know.”

She thought she felt a rumble, some disturbance in their Void deep below their carapace.

What would she have done without them? Run around Hallownest just like she always had, herding survivors towards the City, maybe a few towards Dirtmouth. Spend her time organizing and reorganizing the people, done everything in her power to fight the apathy that had taken hold of them. Perhaps, without Ghost, she would not have been able to solve it, or even understand its cause (she still was not quite sure what they did, but she doubted she could do it herself), and Hallownest would fall into ruin yet again.

Would she have dared to return to Deepnest? To see if anyone remained? She had been afraid of it, of what she would find. And, as she had run back, knowing somehow that her mother's death was imminent, her fears had been realized in missing Weavers and infected Devout. She'd not dared to visit her own caretaker, for fear of encountering Midwife's infected body, slavering and starved.

And what of when she needed to molt, and her wings ripped her back open, only to get trapped where they had formed? Would anyone find her? Would they have been able to free the trapped appendages without ripping them? Would she have molted at all, or stunted herself without any sense of security, without anything in her but duty?

All she'd have left would be the White Lady, blind and trapped by her own devices, mourning for what she did.

“We're not really orphans, are we?” Hollow and Ghost had both their parents, though 'distant' would be a kind, simple way of putting it for both of them. Neither would ever reach out to their children; they could not, they had forsaken that for their own guilt and misery. Hornet still had her stepmother, and she was not sure if the Pale King counted; he had sired her, and he lived on, in his way. But she was not his, and he was not hers.

And, most surely, they were too old to be orphans, were they not?

And Ghost had Mato, which dragged everyone in. Hornet was not sure if she counted him as Father or Sheo and Lias as Uncle, nor did she know if Hollow did, but they were kindly and had taken the siblings in without question. Grimm had made himself plenty a nuisance and found a place whether she liked it or not. Cornifer and Iselda, well, they put up with her, and would not be dissuaded from ensuring the siblings were all right. Even if she had stabbed Iselda.

She ought to ask on how the wound had healed. It was not large, and if she had found a hot spring, perhaps the Soul would have eased it even if she were a mortal and not one who worked with magic, either, but still. It would be polite, right?

...Nobody had ever taught her much what to do when the person you stabbed tried to take you in as her own.

Quirrel, too, she could not forget him, one of the relics remaining from Hallownest's past, same as she and the Vessels.

Ghost plopped down in her lap, the sudden weight breaking her from her thoughts. She almost smacked them on the head on reflex, but they looked up to her with big, empty eyes, and patted her hand. When she just returned the gesture, they laced her fingers with theirs and tugged.

“Is it bedtime?” she asked, amusement growing. “Is that what you're trying to tell us?”

She laughed when they nodded. So earnest, so expressive.

“I am sorry, Little Ghost. I could not sleep.” She scrubbed the top of their head like she had seen Mato do, and they leaned into it, wobbling about to emphasize the motion.

That seemed fine by them. They snuggled up, holding onto her and resting their head on her shoulder. Tiny fingers found purchase on her back, and they pulled on her blanket until they had it wrapped around the both of them, as warm as it could get with a Void being in it and another at her back.

“I am glad-” She stopped herself, reconsidered for a moment. “Thank you, for being able to help Hallownest.”

Ghost bumped their head into her collar. Hollow scrunched the blanket fabric, so she reached up and tapped the underside of their mask.

“You, too. I mean it. You did everything you could. I got to grow up for it. You remember how I was as a child, I may have been a troublemaker but I would not have survived the fall of Hallownest. I don't blame you for it. I doubt any of us knew any better than the paths we were given.”

Hollow's arm wrapped around her, squeezed her tight. A tremor rippled through them, and she turned to press the side of her face into them. They'd gone through so much. All of them had. Them, the Pure Vessel, doomed to imprisonment. Herself, princess of a people who left her, protector of a land to whom she was a bastard. Ghost, left to wander the wastes after they got out of the Abyss.

Somehow.

She never had found how the Vessels got free, even after encountering some around Hallownest.

“I'll always be here for you,” she told her siblings. “If you will forgive me for being... myself.”

Ghost stood on her leg to hug her, arms looped around her neck, their face mashed into hers. Hollow pet her horn in short, almost concerned strokes. She didn't have to apologize, even being as sharp and cold as she was.

“Fine. Then just- I'll be here. I promise.”

That was better.

It was a promise she kept, as well as she could. Ghost accompanied her to the City most days, and Hollow came too, sometimes. They could fit in the library, and Lemm had taken to dragging Quirrel there and sitting him down to help translate some of the more obscure texts. He had been more than happy to slap down some sheets and a pen before Hollow and begin interrogating them on all the little details of life in old Hallownest. Hornet stuck around to watch, once, to ensure it was not stressing her sibling (and because Lemm caught her, too), only to find he was either courteous enough to not ask about the most painful aspects of their past, but rather wanted to know about the details of economics, the knighthood system, construction techniques, whatever Quirrel and Ogrim hadn't been able to supply.

While Hollow did that, she and Ghost ensured the people were still forging their path. Without the two of them as a consistent presence, a leadership system had been forming, the councils concerning things like building access, agriculture, medicine, and the like building internal structures and connecting with each other.

Ghost began to lead expeditions to find more arable land. They were not the most assertive in meetings – they left the talking to their sister – but they listened, and sometimes found the materials she or any other current speaker needed.

And, some days, with the survivors warned in advance, she would stay at home, check her traps, hunt some, and return to her siblings (and Midwife, who refused to stop being a consistent presence). Hollow spent much of their free time sewing, and at once point Ghost ran to her with a loom and demanded in their own way that she show them how to weave.

They were enthusiastic about the new skill, at least.

The first couple clutches of eggs hatched, and the other two who'd come to wait out their pregnancies laid, with Midwife, Hollow, and the rest of the small group of new parents there to support them.

(Hornet visited Midwife's den once, and though the centipede was out to perform a checkup, Hollow was there, a blanket draped over their crossed legs and weighed down with the first hatchlings of Hallownest's new life, all sleeping peacefully while the one who'd been raised and almost died for the sake of their home tapped a lullaby on their knee.)

She was not allowed to neglect her other connections, either. Quirrel stopped by sometimes, giving updates on the efforts to put Monomon's knowledge to use. Other times, he gathered Ghost and the two went out together to explore some hidden corner of the land. The siblings went to visit Mato on occasion, watching Hollow relearn how to wield a weapon, cast their spells, and actually stand up straight once they found a suitable outdoor arena. They stopped by to see Lias and Sheo once or twice, and when they returned to Deepnest they'd place their new artwork in the den. It was strange, but Hornet always got a sense of pride, when she stepped back to look it over afterwards.

Grimmchild, of course, accompanied the longer treks. They and Ghost had found they could both fit between Hollow's horns when they got tired from running around, as if Hollow didn't already slouch enough.

And, when they could, they dropped by Cornifer and Iselda's for tea. Hornet brought them some honey, once, as a thanks for everything, and the jar made a proud appearance on all subsequent visits. Along with warm hugs. She wasn't sure what was with Iselda and Mato with hugs, but she liked to think she was getting better about receiving them. Less stiff, anyways.

So when they went to visit one day, when the air was marginally warmer even if the dust and clouds still clung to everything, Hornet at least remembered to reciprocate and put her arms around Iselda when the taller bug bent down to embrace her.

“How have you been? It's so good to see you,” Iselda said, smiling.

Cornifer called out to Ghost as they ran off, “If you're looking for Bretta, she went off with the cicada girl.” Quieter, he muttered, “I'm not sure where the two of them went.”

Hornet blinked; she'd not seen Bretta much, but the beetle had generally been around, sneaking shy glances of her and her siblings. Gone? And who was the cicada?

Hopefully the two would be safe.

Ghost trudged back, and Iselda knelt to pat their shoulder. “I know, there wasn't much chance to say goodbye. She's so shy, I think goodbyes would have flustered her. Here, let's get some tea.”

The majority of the group ended up inside, with Hollow lying on their stomach, upper body in the doorway with the rest of them sticking out. They chatted, and drank, and it was... pleasant. Homey. Even if this was nothing like any of her other homes.

They were talking with Hollow about what they'd been up to recently – Quirrel, Lemm, anyone else studying old knowledge had yet to find anything about sign languages, so both Ghost and Hollow had been provided some spare paper (apparently they had a lot because Cornifer kept losing sheets) and pens. Hollow detailed their new duties as caretaker, what they had been learning about hatchings and caring for new grubs.

“That sounds like wonderful work, Hollow,” Iselda said, leaning over to read as they wrote.

“Speaking of,” Cornifer adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, then took a sip of tea and quite defeated the purpose of that. He set the mug down, thought for a second, and continued, “Iselda and I don't tend to stay places long. There's not much for a mapmaker to do without making new maps, and no maps means nothing to sell. So I can't say we've decided to settle down here or anything.”

Iselda nodded. “Though, now that we've gotten to know people, yourselves included, it's been a lot nicer than the dusty old town I was afraid we'd stopped in.”

“Yes, truly. And you know we don't have children of our own, but...” Cornifer interrupted himself for another sip of tea. “We've been getting to know you all, and I know you're not exactly children, plus with us traveling, I don't know how long we will be here, but-” He readjusted his glasses. “We would like to call you family. Even if that means sending messages and hoping they get across the wastes, or calling this our home and going out on expeditions – long ones, potentially – but always coming back. If you three are willing, of course.”

“I...” Hornet wasn't sure what she could say. She'd already lost her parents, her home. She'd had to rebuild it all from the ground up. What if they left, too, and didn't come back?

Would it be enough, that she would get a chance to say goodbye this time? That it would be a peaceful separation, them continuing on their journey rather than sleep, death, disappearance?

Ghost answered on their own, stepping carefully around the tea mugs to sit between Cornifer and Iselda. Hollow, slow, as if they'd be cut or burned, reached out, and placed a hand on Iselda's.

It was down to her. She could say no. She could keep herself safe, avoid such tenuous emotional attachments.

Something prickled down her back, pulled at her.

“I'm going to think about it for a moment. I am sorry, I just-”

“No no,” Iselda waved the concern away, though she wasn't smiling quite as broadly. “Take your time. I know it's a lot to think about.”

“Thank you.” She took another sip of her tea, set it down. It would be cold by the time she came back, she was sure, but she still squeezed past Hollow, resting her hand on their horn for a moment and saying, “I'll be back shortly.”

She did not stop walking, away from the town, into the dust swirling in little lazy eddies. Not far, of course. Never too far, in the wastes. She shrugged her shoulders, readjusted her cloak.

And as she walked, she swore she heard the jingling of a bell.

Not just a bell. There, on the horizon, a group of people. She drew her needle, darted closer, from rock to rock. Out here, she couldn't let loose her needle and fly as easily; the wind could always pick up, and her weapon had nowhere to anchor.

They slowed, when they saw her – she was not sure how, their headgear covered their entire face, with no clear spaces for eyes. And they carried a cage – an empty cage. Gilded with gold. Why?

“Who goes there?” she called, reaffirming her grip.

They said nothing.

They walked out, slowly, almost submissively, forming a line.

They waved their staffs, and before she could strike, before she could run, she felt her Soul get locked down, trapped within her, and the world grew hazy and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done! I finished this up yesterday, whee! (Worked through lunch at the end there, oops. Don't do that.)
> 
> It's been... a good while!
> 
> I love and appreciate everyone who's given this a read. Shout-out to the folks who give kudos and comment, either once, a few times, or regularly come by! I may be very bad at responding but seeing what y'all think brings me joy. It means so much to me to see people get excited about the story.
> 
> While this is over (and anything else with this story will have to wait for Silksong), I did start posting some of the snippets and ficlets I've written up. No guarantees on when it'll update, though, beyond "when I feel like it."
> 
> Now, if y'all don't mind me, I'm gonna take a nap.
> 
> (Oh, also, I know I don't generally post what the song for each chapter is, but this one is Tell Her You Love Her by Echosmith.)


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